


say it’s us (and i’ll agree)

by pretense



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: ... that the other party doesn't know is a date..., ...well in-the-making for now..., Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Big boo boos, First Dates, M/M, Musical References, Platonic Life Partners, Sugar Daddy, and then suddenly we're a Law Firm, so much food... why is this so much about food..., with a bit of holiday spirit to wrap this all up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2018-11-23 08:16:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 57,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11398659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pretense/pseuds/pretense
Summary: Alfred didn’t think much about hanging out with his roommate’s (all-knowing, snarky, and pretty cool once you get to know him) older brother. That is until the getting-to-know-him part goes a little too well. That... That happens, right?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I dropped into a Hetalia wormhole and have been catching up on stuff that I missed since ‘09. And I missed A LOT. I missed everyone but mostly my dear UKUS so I’ve got a lot of feels piled up. (un)Fortunately, That’s What I Like is playing like elevator music in my mind too so… Please take a chance on this abominable fic baby born out of a threesome with feels, [Bruno Mars](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PMivT7MJ41M), and [this tumblr post.](http://hopaiskalos.tumblr.com/post/162144198989)

The last thing Alfred would expect is an epiphany while walking back from class with Feliks. He isn’t even sure why they’re so chummy, chatting mindlessly as if they’d been childhood friends when they only met last semester and by some odd chance ended up in the same three-hour meets-only-on Friday class. Alfred isn’t exactly complaining.

Feliks is _Toris’_ childhood friend. Y’know. Toris. Best roommate ever until he moved out and now rooms with Ivan, who Alfred is _positive_ pulled some strings to get Toris there with him; maybe in an attempt to get some inside info on Alfred’s study habits so he could finally beat him in their epic GWA stand-off. Whatever. Not that Alfred expects Toris will blab, if there is anything to even blab about.

Anyway, Alfred has a new roommate now -- Peter, who is two years younger than him. Peter is a whirlwind of energy with moods swinging like an extremely emotional wind vane. Peter’s older brother visits them sometimes. They’ve got the same thick brows (a family trait, so he’s heard) but their personalities couldn’t be any more different. Despite the constant banter between the two, Alfred can tell that they’re pretty close.

It’s a sunny day, could use a little more cloud cover but Alfred could care less since they’re inside anyway. Philosophy class just ended and Alfred is none the wiser about the day’s lessons. He understands the concepts, Francis is a great professor -- he insists on being on first name basis with them which is pretty cool in Alfred’s book -- but Alfred just gets a wee bit lost when they start applying the lessons to real life situations. Feliks is sympathetic, tells him to maybe get a tutor or something.

“Isn’t your brother, like, a TA?”

“Most in-demand TA ever,” Alfred says, a bit proud, a bit wry. “If he’s not busy with hockey, Matt is always off somewhere contributing to the greater good.”

Feliks snickers. “Poor you.” A ringing chime from the depths of his bag distracts him, and he digs a hand through its contents to find his phone.

Meanwhile, Alfred pouts. He’s not really failing the class (yet) so there’s really no rush to find a tutor as Feliks suggested. But is he really going to wait until he’s desperately clinging to a 3 before he takes action? Nuh-uh. He wonders if Arthur could help him.

The thought of the older man makes his breath catch for a second. He hasn’t seen Arthur in more than a week, Arthur won’t even Snapback even though Alfred sees him saving all of his Snaps. It’s plenty gratifying seeing as Alfred himself had urged Arthur to download the app, helped him set up his profile and everything including sending his very first Snap which Alfred dutifully saved. For posterity’s sake. In hindsight, it’s questionable that Arthur actually has much use for it; unless his office full of balding lawyers have some humor to spare which Alfred highly doubts. In any case, he figures there’s no harm in asking Arthur about philosophy when he gets back. Assuming he’s not busy and all. Alfred hopes he’s not. He’s kind of been pretty used to Arthur being around lately, it’s… It’s _something_.

“--Listen, that is definitely a date. She ditched her friends for you, that’s not _nothing_ ,” Feliks is saying beside him, a classic flip phone pressed against his ear. “Mm. That’s right. And you’re going to foot the bill, ‘kay? Don’t make her pay for anything. Not a cent out her wallet, got that? Mm, okay. Love ya.” He shuts the phone dramatically, rolling his eyes to get the full effect. “Boys.”

“Did you really just tell your friend to pay for an entire date?” Alfred raises a quizzical brow. “Kind of old fashioned, isn’t it?” All the girls he’d dated in the past insisted on splitting the bill and he’d learned early on not to argue lest he be accused of ‘undermining their agency.’

“Not really.” Feliks carelessly drops his phone back into his bag. “If you’re set to impress a date, paying for everything is a must.”

“Oh.” Alfred thrusts his hands into his pocket, finding his phone tucked inside one and gripping it for support. Arthur always paid whenever they go out, usually with Peter (who sometimes forgot that it was his turn on take out dinner duty and figured it better to call his (quote, unquote) annoying brother rather than starve them both). Though there were dinners where it was only the two of them and it wasn’t awkward at all. Come to think of it, they had lunch just before Arthur went on his business trip.

Alfred had been asking the older Kirkland for his opinion on some assigned readings and Arthur suggested that instead of Alfred sending him pictures of every other paragraph, they’d be better off meeting up so Arthur can read the whole thing himself. They settled in a sandwich shop and stayed the entire afternoon. Alfred learned a lot about Faulkner before getting roped into a shopping trip as Arthur needed a new waistcoat and ended up buying a shirt or two for Alfred as well.

In fact, Alfred is wearing one of those shirts right now. It’s a pretty nice fit. He remembers Arthur eyeing him intently as he tried it on, feels the ghost sensation of Arthur’s hands propping the collar and the smoothing over the line of his shoulders. They had been…. close… in that fitting room. Alfred gulps, faint heat turning his cheeks pink.

“Alfred?” Feliks voice sounded distant.

Alfred shakes his head to clear the fog. They’re already outside the building and the unfiltered sunlight makes him squint.

“You alright?”

“I’m…”

“If you’re really stressed about Philo, y’know we can ask Toris if he still has his notes from last semester. He took Héderváry’s class but, like, the lessons should be the same.”

“It’s not that,” Alfred mumbles, the jumble of his thoughts coming to order. At the top of the steps leading down from the Social Sciences building, Alfred stops with an urgent realization. More urgent than his philosophy lessons. “It’s… _fuck_.”

“Excuse me?” Feliks rears back at the expletive, whispered though it was and not even remotely directed at him. Alfred looks at him and he sees utter confusion. Feliks opens his mouth to say -- well, _something_. Calming words or maybe another question, maybe tell him to sit down for a bit because Feliks isn’t sure he can handle all six-feet-something of him going into hysterics right here right now but Alfred beats him to the punch. And oh is it a knock-out.

“I think my roommate’s older brother is hitting on me.”

Both of Feliks’ brows arch high, bright green eyes blinking. Of all the things to come out of Alfred’s mouth, he didn’t expect… well, _that._  “ _Really_?”

Alfred blinks too, unbelieving that he’d said such a thing himself. Eventually, he says, ”Yeah, well…He’s, like, helping us out with rent and stuff? And we hang out a lot… um, even with just me, like, Peter isn’t even there.” Which… wasn’t much of a loss if Alfred is going to be honest. Was he supposed to know that those were warning signs or something? Because now that he’s got this ‘theory’, the evidence just keeps piling up. “And when he bought Peter’s books for the semester, he asked if I wanted to come to the bookstore, and _then_ he bought _my_ books.” Seeing Feliks’ comically wide eyes staring makes Alfred pull up a disclaimer. “Obviously, I didn’t let him buy _all_ of them ‘cause that would be weird. Haha. But then he bought me dinner. So, like…”

Feliks’ moment of panic subsides as Alfred’s tirade ends in mumbling. He nudges Alfred’s side, urging the taller teen to move so they won’t become roadblocks. It’s actually funny, seeing this flustered look on Alfred. Jokingly, he asks, “Is he hot?”

“Uhhh…I guess?” Alfred’s feet move unconsciously, his distracted brain sending “Yeah. Maybe. I mean, I dunno.” out of his mouth while his internal thoughts go ‘ _His brows are ridiculously thick they actually border on adorable._ ’

“Wait.” Feliks takes it upon himself to steer Alfred towards a vacant pillar. “Is this like a creepy thing? Is he creepy?”

“No! No, dude, he’s not like – like…” Realizing his outburst, Alfred bites down on his lower lip, continuing in a more controlled volume. “Art’s actually a pretty cool guy… He’s paying for my roommate to go to college and helping us out, and he’s all smart, too. He’s a lawyer or something, and he’s pretty chill, y'know, and–” He cuts off, surprised by the sudden pressure of fingernails digging into his arm.

“Oh my god you like, _LIKE_ him!” Feliks screeches.

“I’M NOT GAY!” Alfred shouts back, equally loud if not louder judging by the sudden head-turn of other students in the vicinity towards them.

Feliks wears a Look as if Christmas has just come early, his lips pulled into a smirk. “You totally like him.”

“ _But I’m not gay_ ,” Alfred hisses. Nothing against gays, of course. Just that he’d been going gaga over women since puberty hit. Not even sharing locker rooms with swarms of sweaty, athletic teammates in various states of undress over the years sparked any sort of attraction so he simply couldn’t be...

“You’re, like, gay **_for_** him,” Feliks lays it down gently in a mothering tone, a mix of _giddy-for-my-child’s-first-prom_ mode and an _i-didn’t-raise-you-to-be-this-fucking-clueless_ vibe. “That’s a thing, honey.”

“But…” The last thing Alfred would expect is an epiphany while walking back from class with Feliks. Yet here he is, all too aware of the sudden influx of definitely-no-longer-platonic feelings towards his roommate's(!) older(!!) brother(!!!) and all he can say, quite concisely, is “ _Fuck._ ”

Vaguely, he notes that Feliks is squealing. “Forget Philosophy! You could be, like, dating a lawyer! I am _so_ telling Toris.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> arthur still doesn't want to show up im afraid... for now we've got more characters joining the fray  
> there will be some google-fu'd dialogue bec this won't be hetalia without 'em  
> so just _hover over the text like so_

Matthew should have been the first to know. Alfred thanks fate and luck and the perpetual disarray of Feliks’ bag that he was able to stop his classmate from excavating his phone and spreading gossip like wildfire.

“You can’t tell anyone!” Alfred cries.

“Why noooot?” Feliks attempts to free his captured wrist but to no avail; stupid quarterbacks and their stupid iron grip. He just got two love matches in a day it’s practically Christmas! He can’t just _not_ tell anyone.

“B-Because, uh...” Alfred can see people still staring at them from his periphery. “I want to tell them myself!” Feliks’ defensive stance lowers and Alfred is silently grateful for his critical thinking skills. “You understand that, right?”

A huff, then a softer gaze lands on him. “Fine.”

 

With Feliks promising to stay mum, Alfred’s next problem becomes how to tell Matthew about it. Because _of course_ he has to tell Matthew: No secrets is the foundation of their bro code and, honestly, Alfred needs all the support he can get right now. He can’t tell Peter yet and boy is that one looking to be a fucking huge hurdle. He needs to regroup and have a Plan before confronting his roommate. You don’t just _tell_ people that you sort of have feelings for their brother (who might have been hitting on you all this time) and that you’re maybe kind of hoping to have their blessing. It sounds so ridiculous just thinking about it (Peter is younger than him, damn it!) but if that’s what it’s gonna take to date Arthur… oh God, do all those times in the past count as dates? Alfred hoped not because _man_ was he not on his best behavior on those.

He finds Matthew in a bistro off campus, having a late lunch.

“Hey, Al!” Matthew smiles in greeting.

“You’ve got tomato bits in your teeth,” Alfred says, putting up a toothpaste-commercial smile and pointing around his canines.

“Oh!” Quickly covering his mouth, Matthew cleans off the spot as Alfred takes the seat opposite him. “Sorry about that.”

“You got more classes after this?” Alfred asks.

“No, just a paper due online at eight,” Matthew tells him once he’s put his hand down. “I’m already done with it, just needs a final proofreading. You want something to eat?”

“Sure.”

Matthew flags down a waiter who brings a menu to their table shortly. Alfred turns to the first page and points to a burger meal, upsizing his drink (“Diet soda”) and fries (“Easy on the salt”), before sending the waiter off.

He feels Matthew staring. “What?”

Matthew lets out a low hum, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes. “You usually take forever to order.”

“Yeah, well,” Alfred coughs. “I’ve eaten here plenty of times before so I already know what I want.” 

* * *

The bistro is a common food joint for university students but tonight it’s packed to the brim. It’s the first football game of the season and Alfred’s team did not disappoint on homeground. He got his well-deserved praise and now there’s awesome grub to fill his stomach. The coach treated them to dinner but old man is long gone now, though a few teammates are still hanging about. He can hear a couple of the guys recounting the match to their girlfriends a few tables over but as for Alfred himself...

“What are you even doing here?” Peter Kirkland, gangly and still riding the post-game high, turns up his nose at the guy sitting next to him. “You don’t even like sports.”

“I’m here to support my brother, you ungrateful little--” Arthur cuts himself off, crossing his arms over his chest. “You bragged about being on the football team. _Of course_ , I wanted to see you in play.”

“I never said I was playing~” Peter huffs, mirroring the crossed arms motion.

Arthur grits his teeth. “That, you did.”

“He was a really good mascot, though,” Alfred interjects, smiling with a cheek full of half-chewed churkey burger.

“...Quite.” Arthur’s gaze lingers for a second before turning towards Peter again, his frown returning a touch less rigid. “You could have just said you were gonna dress up as an anthropomorphic eagle.”

Drink halfway to his mouth, Peter abruptly slams his soda can on the table, rattling the condiments tray. “Don’t put it like that! I _so_ did more than just ‘dress up.’ Just admit you’re _jealous_.”

“Of what?” Arthur’s expression turns a bit guarded. Alfred doesn’t know why he notices this, usually he’s so into his food he barely keeps track of what’s happening. The churkey burger is delicious, too. Then again, he isn’t usually surrounded by such _riveting_ conversation.

“I’m gonna be popular with those killer moves I pulled, right Alfred?” The way Peter says it carries an implied ‘ _Unlike you_ ’ directed at his older brother. “The cheerleaders were totally impressed!”

Pausing in his concentrated efforts to slurp up an avocado shake, Alfred hums, nodding his head enthusiastically.

“I’m sure they were charmed Peter,” Arthur says coolly, picking up his thermos and pouring himself some tea. “Just like those majorettes in your marching band that you mooned after all of high school.”

Now Peter is flushing red. “W-What’s wrong with that, huh? Allister told me you were in the _library committee_ . _And_ the student council.”

“Ergo?”

“All _you’ve_ ever joined are the stuffy boring clubs.”

“Well, someone had to run them.” If Arthur was any less concerned about decorum Alfred is sure he would’ve dramatically thrown his hands up.

As much as Arthur’s snark amuses him, Alfred didn’t ditch his teammates for just that. He’s actually interested to hear more about Peter’s older brother, who -- aside from contributing to their dorm rent this month, thank you baby Jesus -- was cool enough to stay for the game despite the initial misunderstanding of Peter’s actual role in it. “You were in the student council, Art?”

The nickname (and probably the friendly tone, too) catches the Brit off guard that instead of correcting it, Arthur skips right on over to answering the question. “Erm, yeah. I held two terms as council president, junior and senior year.”

“Shows you how much of a control freak he is, don’t it, Alfred?” Peter quips, clearly not yet having filled his daily Make Arthur Mad quota.

“ _Don’t it_ isn’t proper grammar, for goodness’ sake!”

“My brother was student council secretary,” Alfred forges on, stifling another oncoming row. “You know Matt, right?” 

* * *

“But you _always_ go through the promo flyers first,” the Matthew-of-the-present accuses. His glasses have slid down his nose from leaning forward so much that his eyes sort of look bugged out above them. “What was it that you always say? ‘ _I can’t miss out on anything, Matt! I have to try these limited edition coolers! That shrimp fillet looks funky, I’ll take one._ ’”

Alfred should have a comeback to that, something witty or annoying, or even just a ‘Shut up, Matt!’ would work. That’s how they work, him and his brother, great buddies even if they’re not related by blood. More than just his brother, Matthew is Alfred’s best friend, his confidante. Of course he can tell in an instant that something is up. Shit. Alfred isn’t prepared for this. It’s too soon. He should’ve waited a day at least to mull things over, not march right into the battle ten minutes after such a huge revelation. He was hoping to use food as a buffer but…

Matthew’s mistrusting look vanishes in a blink, a slim finger propping up the prescription glasses on a similarly slim nose. His eyes gleam like amethysts, snickers slipping past peach-hued lips. “Oh my God, Al.”

“Wha -- huh?”

“You got this weird face like…” Matthew furrows his brows and twists his mouth, like he’d swallowed something sour. Fixing his mien, he levels an amused look at Alfred. “What’s up with that?”

Realizing he’s been had, Alfred slides his hands under his glasses, hiding his face behind them and whining. “Maaatttt!”  His plan of action is to bury his head on the table but then the waiter comes back and his order is set in front of him.

“Alright, alright, no more teasing.” Matthew swirls more spaghetti around his fork, his grin softens when a bright blue eye peeks from a crack between his brother’s fingers. “Jesus, Alfred. Eat up and start talking...”

“Hmph.” Alfred straightens up, his gray mood lifting at the smell of delicious food.

“This must be really serious, huh.”

 

“So you’re gay,” Matthew states, completely unfazed even after Alfred bared his soul -- well, no, it wasn’t really _that_ extreme… his woes, then -- even after Alfred shared his woes with him.

“Ish.”

“Sorry. _Bisexual._ For your roommate’s older brother.”

“Yup.”

“Who you only realized _quite recently_ ” - violet eyes harden at this - “has been hitting on you _since the start of the semester?_ ”

“.... Did I mention that he drives a DB11?”

“...”

“Because he does. Drove us all the way uptown for dinner that one time. It was pretty far, y’know, we got back around midnight. Good thing the dorm guard still let me in after.”

“You let him… until midnight -- _Christ_ , Al.”

“What?” Alfred blinks.

“Do you have any idea what you’re getting into?” Concern wrinkles Matthew’s forehead.

Alfred feels his ears go hot, he’s sure he’s red all the way down to his collar. “Ewww, Matt, we weren’t doing anything like that!”

“ _I’m not talking bases._ ”

“Then what is it?”

Being Alfred’s brother, being the sensible one, can be very trying at times. Matthew looks to the ceiling, prays for divine intervention, wondering how he can break it to his dear brother without shattering his bright-eyed disposition.

Alfred always did want more, more of everything, more for himself, just...   _more_ . He dreams big, fueled by boundless optimism. Matthew admires that about him. On the other hand, Alfred never really grasped the concept of being _spoiled_ \-- the whole _he gets what he wants_ thing, y’know. Greatness attracted attention and Alfred thrives on that, never really accounting for how demanding that is for other people who are… well… not of his caliber.

“He’s spoiling you,” Matthew finally says. “And you’re loving it.”

“Y-Yeah, well… That’s why I told you-”

“No, listen,” Matthew interrupts, a rare occurrence on its own that Alfred immediately shuts up. “He buys your books, your clothes, takes you out to fancy dinners and drives you around in his fancy car -- you’re blinded by grandeur of it all!”

“That’s… that’s not true…” Chin tucked to his chest, Alfred stares at the leftover ketchup dip on his plate.

“Alfred…”

“He’s nice to me…”

“I’m sure he is,” Matthew says gently. “But liking a person just because they give you nice things is a little…” He shrugs, grimacing. “I’m not saying this to be mean. I want you to think rationally.”

Without looking up, Alfred takes a long breath through his nose before breathing out. “Okay.”

Sensing the soured mood, Matthew takes a second to check his own breathing. When he speaks again, it’s with a little uncertainty. “Are you gonna see him again soon?”

Alfred regards him flatly. “I’m not.”

“You’re not?” Matthew blinks.

“He’s out of town. Business trip.” Alfred swirls the straw in his drink, some of the ice has melted and he mixes it in with the remaining soda. “He should be back next weekend.”

“Oh.” Matthew bites his lip. “You’ve got a game right? Will... Arthur be there…?” He tries not to flinch at the suspicious look Alfred sends him.

“Yeah…” Alfred’s answer is guarded now. “His brother Peter is the varsity mascot.”

That gets Matthew to pause. “Is this the same Peter that mistook me for you that one time? Told me to get takeout for dinner since he didn’t have cash.”

“Wait, he did?” Alfred’s brows shoot up.

“He ran off before I can tell him I had no idea what he was saying. That was like a month ago.”

“So _that’s_ why Peter said he’d already told me he couldn’t get dinner that one time.” He pauses to finish up his drink. “And here I thought he was just scatterbrained.”

“How did you eat then?” Sensing their conversation coming to an end, Matthew signals a waiter for their bill.

“Peter…” Alfred pauses, puffing up his cheeks for a second, unconscious of their pinkish tinge. “He called Arthur and we… went out.”

“Right…”

The waiter hands Matthew their bill, who checks for his total before turning it over to Alfred. They combine their payments and prepare to leave.

“You heading back to the dorms after this?” Matthew asks as they step outside.

“Peter will be there,” Alfred says, heavy implications hanging in the air. He bends down for a second and unlocks his bike from the rack. “I’mma head straight to practice.”

“Alright.” Matthew claps his shoulder. “I’ll see you at the game next week!”

“Yeah, wait, what?”

“And after that let’s all get dinner.”

“But you never watch my games.” Alfred pouts. “And besides that, dinner with who?”

“You don’t watch my games, either,” Matthew throws back without any real heat. “And I’m talking about dinner with Arthur and Peter.”

“W-With…” Alfred looks incredulous. “But you just said--”

“I know what I said,” Matthew retorts flippantly. “But that’s all based on your point of view. I want to meet the guy, see what he’s like in person.”

“You…”

“If some guy’s hitting on my brother, I just can’t let that slide.”

This time Alfred does blush profusely. “Mattiee!”

“Get to practice, you idiot!”

* * *

In the end, Matthew can’t really stop Alfred. His brother is just too stubborn when he sets his mind on something. He thinks he’s in love with some guy (who sounds nice enough from what Alfred has told him) but Matthew can’t help being suspicious of the situation.

Rich older guy buying poor college student his wants and needs?

Yeah, definitely suspicious.

In a way, he’s glad Alfred told him, glad that despite having grown up with their own separate social circles, they can still rely on each other. Matthew’s feet take him through his usual route through campus to get to his dorm. Unlike Alfred, Matthew prefers to walk and enjoy the scenery rather than speeding through it all. Maybe he can room with Alfred next semester. His brother had been bugging him to move in since his last roommate left but Alfred’s dorm is on the other end of campus, very far from Matthew’s home college. With everything happening, though, Matthew is starting to think a little inconvenience would be worth keeping an eye on his brother. Lost in thought, he doesn’t see the other person walking in his path until a solid wall crashes into him, a rain of white sheets falling upon his head.

“ _Désolé!_ " Matthew barely registers the pain of falling on his ass, quickly picking up the scattered papers. They’re essays, he realizes as he gathers more and more in his arms.

“ _Oh! Ne t'excuse pas._ "

A hand reaches for the same sheet in front of him. Matthew notes the fine hairs on the back of it, as well as the silver ring around the middle finger. Quickly retracting his own hand, Matthew looks around for other pieces. On finding none, he straightens up, getting his first real look at the man he’d bumped into.

“ _Tout va bien pour vous?_ ” the beautiful man asks, a touch of concern in his soft gaze.

It takes him a second to realize he'd been asked a question. But a particular detail grabs his attention more. " _Était-ce... Français?_ ” Matthew wonders.

“ _Ah, oui._ ” The corner of his lips curl into a soft smile, accentuating the light stubble over his chin. “Rarely do I use it unless conversing with the language professors… Are you by chance one of Delacour’s students?”

“Oh no, I just… French was common where I grew up.” Matthew tucks a fly-away hair that breezes into his face.

“A native speaker! _Magnifique!_ ” Pearly white teeth gleam in the late afternoon light. “ _Je suis Francis de Paris._ ”[1]

Matthew’s eyes widen behind his glasses. It's a dream of his to go to France someday. “Matthew,” he says, almost breathless, in response to the man's introduction. He extends his hand for a handshake only to realize it's holding a sheaf of papers. Saving face, he raises the entire stash making to hand it over. “And, uh, here’s your… stuff… Um.”

Francis receives them graciously, tucking them in with the rest in the folder he holds against his hip. “Thank you, but you never answered my question. Are you alright?”

“Yes, um, sorry for bumping into you. I just have a lot of things on my mind…” Matthew smiles apologetically. “Are _you_ alright?”

“It's Friday and grading these papers can wait. No more students until Monday, ah!” Francis declares with an airy laugh. “I'm wonderful.”

“Yeah…”

“Although…” Francis tilts his head in thought. “I was on my way to the University Café. Would the fine _monsieur_ care to join me for a drink? To top off the week?”

“A-Ah, that's very kind of you.” Matthew gets a peculiar feeling under his skin at the harmless invitation. It's true that it's rare for him to find someone who's fluent in French despite this being an international university. Still… “I just had a late lunch, though, a-and I've got a paper to turn in.” He purses his lips. “Sorry.”

“I understand.” His words are kind but they don't mask the tinge of disappointment in his eyes. Francis steps aside with easy grace. “Maybe next time, then.”

“S-Sure.” A few tentative steps bring them side by side. Matthew is surprised to find he’s a bit taller than the Frenchman. “I’ll see you around.”

" _Oui_. ” Francis gives a slight nod of acknowledgement. “And Matthew?”

A gentle touch of fingers on his jaw makes him blush.

“Keep your chin up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Arthur drives a sweet car.](http://db11.astonmartin.com/home/design/shape)
> 
>  
> 
>    
> [1] Scene translation  
> “I'm sorry!" Matthew barely registers the pain of falling on his ass, quickly picking up the scattered papers. They’re essays, he realizes as he gathers more and more in his arms.
> 
> “Oh! No need to apologize."
> 
> A hand reaches for the same sheet in front of him. Matthew notes the fine hairs on the back of it, as well as the silver ring around the middle finger. Quickly retracting his own hand, Matthew looks around for other pieces. On finding none, he straightens up, getting his first real look at the man he’d bumped into.
> 
> “Are you alright?” the beautiful man asks, a touch of concern in his soft gaze.
> 
> It takes him a second to realize he'd been asked a question. But a particular detail grabs his attention more. "Was that... French?” Matthew wonders.
> 
> “Ah, yes.” The corner of his lips curl into a soft smile, accentuating the light stubble over his chin. “Rarely do I use it unless conversing with the language professors… Are you by chance one of Delacour’s students?”
> 
> “Oh no, I just… French was common where I grew up.” Matthew tucks a fly-away hair that breezes into his face.
> 
> “A native speaker! Wonderful!” Pearly white teeth gleam in the late afternoon light. “I am Francis from Paris.”[ return to text ]


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did... did no one see matt's chapter or...?  
> :c

Alfred is acting weird. Peter doesn't know why and he's not sure he wants to ask. It's Alfred, after all. He’s like Superman in Peter’s eyes -- inspiring and unstoppable. But of course Alfred is also human; Peter figures he’s just nervous about tonight's game. It's going to be against a longtime rival school, one of the few real challengers that they have in claiming the finals cup.

The skies are clear and the crowds are loud, a sea of red and white in support of the home team, their team. It's a lot of pressure not to disappoint.

“Nervous?” Peter finally deigns to ask when Alfred walks into his back for the third time.

“A little.” Alfred's smile is sheepish, his phone protectively pressed against his chest.

Peter frowns. It’s going to be a reach but… “Is Arthur bothering you again?” He knows his older brother is keeping tabs on him and it shouldn’t come as a surprise that he gets Peter’s roommate in on the effort. It’s totally unnecessary to bother Alfred like this, though. Totally uncool. “I told that geezer to quit it already.”

“I-I-It's not him.” Alfred looks away, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Though it’s sort of related to him, too, and how Alfred got through a week without spilling his guts to Peter is a miracle. Alfred is praying for a miracle right now, as well. “My brother’s coming to watch.”

“The hockey player?”

Finally, a grin appears, shaky as it is. “The one and only.”

* * *

“Yo Peter, get your ass over here!”

The cheer squad has assembled outside the stadium and one of the guys has spotted Peter.

“Coach wants to --ack!” The teen calling out to them gets his sunglasses knocked off his face, courtesy of a petite cheergirl elbowing him in the side.

“Morgan, you idiot! Can’t you see he’s with -- Hi Alfred!” She hastily straightens up as the pair approaches them.

“Hey!” Alfred beams. “Uh, Yolie, right?”

“She prefers ‘Y’,” Peter tells him but then she corrects him. Pointedly.

“Yolie is  _ fine _ , haha.” Y directs an exaggerated smile at Alfred, kicking Peter’s shin when she thinks the quarterback won’t see it.

“Stupid girl.” Morgan scowls, having picked up his glasses from the ground. “Who cares if he’s with a -- Aaa-Alfred!” He wheezes. “Sir!”

Alfred’s brows knit together. “Sir?”

“Please do your best today -- ack, what am I saying, you’re always doing your best,” he mutters, completely in awe. There’s a sparkle in his eyes as he looks up at Alfred.  “That’s why we always win. You’re always amazing so this game shouldn’t be different. But I still want to wish you the best. U-Unless that’s bad luck, then--”

“This isn’t theater, doofus.” Y hisses.

“Ignore him,” Peter says to Alfred. To Morgan, he sneers, “Get a grip, man. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Rounding on Peter, Morgan’s demeanor changes in an instant. “What did you say, punk?”

“Boys, please!” Y puts a hand on both of their shoulders, the very picture of exasperation. “I’m really sorry about them, Alfred.”

“It’s fine!” Raising both hands in a pacifying gesture, Alfred looks over to the stadium entrance. “Anyway, I better get going. Pre-game huddle and all.“

“Of course!” Y smiles winningly.

Peter waves. “See ya.”

As soon as Alfred’s golden head of hair is lost in the crowd Morgan rounds on the other two, making full use of his height to intimidate. “And where do you get off acting like you’re all mature, huh?” he glares at Y.

“That's because I AM mature.”

“You're both being stupid,” Peter wrinkles his nose. “You don't have a chance with him so just lay off.”

“And what makes you so sure?” Y crosses her arms.

“Roommate privileges.”

“Lucky bastard,” Morgan gripes, hanging his sunglasses on the V of his collar.

“What? Did he tell you something?” Y grabs Peter’s arm. “Does he like anyone? Do I know them?” Offhandedly, she mutters, “He supposedly hasn't dated anyone since freshman year.”

“I'm not telling you anything.” Peter sticks his tongue out. “Anyway, didn't Coach want to see us?”

Y pesters him all the way over but Peter has already perfected the Art of Not-Listening thanks to his ever-nagging older brother. (Technically he has five older brothers but he's not exactly close with the others and ended up stuck with Arthur.)

Ugh. To think that Arthur's here again.

Peter isn't some helpless toddler anymore, he's practically an adult already! It's annoying as hell. He expected Arthur to know better, he knows what it's like to be suffocated by overbearing (not to mention overachieving) siblings. Isn't that why Arthur moved here in the first place? To get away from it all? Peter was too young to understand what happened then but Arthur making a near permanent home overseas very clearly points to a serious conflict. It doesn't appear to be a complete falling out though, as Arthur still attended holiday gatherings and could be convinced to fly out on special occasions. Clearly his beef wasn't with Peter especially as he had wholeheartedly accepted guardianship of him when Peter got accepted into W University. If anything, Arthur seems intent to prove a point with how dedicated he is at looking after the youngest Kirkland.

In any case, Peter is glad he'd only told him about being “part of the football team.” Else, he fears Arthur might start showing up to every tournament and Peter can't even begin to imagine the horror of it. Peter appreciates his older brother’s enthusiasm but it gets tiring very quickly. With Arthur constantly checking in on him, attending the games, asking if he's free on  weekends (as if he’s ignorant of the horrid amounts of schoolwork the University piles on its students) Peter is starting to think the guy doesn't have a social life or something. That or he’s trying too hard. Probably both.

The only good thing about this is that  Alfred doesn't appear to mind. It’s honestly the best thing to happen to Peter, having to room with the varsity quarterback. At least Arthur seemed to understand his need for some modicum of independence and didn't insist (more like quit trying after a while) on having Peter reside with him.

Alfred is the one who told him about the cheerleading team tryouts. Said the last mascot guy just graduated and they’re looking for fresh talent. Peter figured it wouldn’t hurt to try since he’s new here and barely knows anyone, joining a club with plenty of members is his best bet to build his network. Everyone knows Alfred (naturally) and Peter didn’t mind tagging along in the beginning. Alfred is plenty smart, too. Way different from Arthur’s snobbish booksmarts and definitely more approachable. He taught Peter all the shortcuts on campus, which professors are good, and all the best food places, too.

Despite all that, Peter still failed him.

One day, Peter got lost and by the time he got to their dorm Arthur was there. Fresh from work by the looks of him. In a tweed suit and polished loafers, he sat primly on Peter’s bed while Alfred straddled his desk chair, arms folded over the backrest. They seemed to be in animated conversation which came to a stop on Peter’s arrival.

“There he is!” Alfred exclaimed, laughing. “Y’know I thought I entered the twilight zone when I got back. This guy looked exactly like you. ‘Cept older and, like, his eyebrows are way bushier heh.”

“Oi.”

“Joking.”

Peter despaired. If they had already gotten to the point where Alfred jokes about Arthur’s eyebrows (to his face!) and lived then they were probably friends already. It was the only time Peter cursed Alfred's infallible friendliness.

* * *

“Louder!”

“GOOO TEAM! GO! FIGHT! WIN!”

The drummers beat a fast and deep tempo, dominating the yell of the crowd and the cheerleaders’ chants. It's a heart-pounding match that has Peter on the edge of his seat. On his right, Morgan is gripping the wingtip of the mascot’s felt-lined costume. On his left, Seb is muttering some kind of prayer in a language Peter can't decipher; Italian probably, if not straight up Latin. Upfront, Coach Tino is shouting into his trusty megaphone, rallying the band and practically the entire stadium to keep cheering.

“GOOO TEAM!”

Down on the field, the intimidating Coach Oxenstierna is fuming a silence more fearsome than usual. His face all harsh, angry lines. His players barely holding down the fort, doing their darnedest to stop the other team from scoring in order to maintain their one-point lead.

Y and the girls’ voices are shrill, pompoms raised like Lady Liberty’s torch, glittering red and blinding white.

Peter doesn't regret joining the cheer squad. He just wishes he could take the stupid mascot head off and make his support heard as well.

 

They win. Confetti cannons burst as the rest of varsity team rushes onto the field. They're followed closely by the cheer squad where Peter can't quite decide if he's running or dancing. He sees Morgan run into one of the Tackles, shouting hoarsely as their chest bump turns into a bone-crushing hug. Y is lost under the sea of bodies, the only way to locate her is by the bob of  her artful side ponytail. Seb scoops him up with a toned arm looping under his shoulders, pulling him along to formation as the awarding ceremonies start.

 

Even without having talked about it, Peter and Alfred gravitate together in the parking lot post-game. Alfred receives Peter’s gushing recount of particularly awesome gameplays with a near-blinding smile, humbly deferring rightful praise to their team captain and other players when it becomes too much.

“You were still so awesome!” Peter insists.

“Thanks, man.” Alfred looks sideways for a second and freezes, a sharp intake of breath making his eyes dilate.

Concerned, Peter follows his gaze. There’s Y with the other girls waiting by the bus, Coach Tino gone somewhere leaving cheer captain Emma in charge. A couple of guys from the football team, slamming into each others’ sides and laughing off the excess adrenaline. Morgan is staring right at Alfred, looking like he wants to come over but never actually moving an inch. He’s a little starry-eyed, still, and normally Peter would’ve jumped at the chance to make fun of the older teen but this is more important. And then he sees it -- the too-familiar ivory coupe. Arthur is standing just outside it, fiddling with his phone, probably gonna ask where they want to eat.

Arthur’s acting like one of those soccer moms on TV and it’s infuriating. Can’t he understand that post-game hangouts are part of team bonding? Probably not, the insufferable git. Probably living his non-existent social life vicariously through them, trying to be ‘cool’ like he never was at Peter’s age. How is he supposed to stand on his own feet when Arthur’s hovering like some bushy-browed mother hen? This has to stop, Peter decides. He’s going to tell Arthur to stop meddling, stop inserting himself in Peter’s life so he can actually live it. He’s going to --

“Mattie!” Alfred’s yell derails his train of thought.

Peter looks around and thinks he sees double. There’s another Alfred headed their way, a foam hand under his arm, silky-looking hair swaying as he runs. (He has pretty good form, Peter notes absently.) Peter checks beside him and sure enough Alfred fresh-from-the-lockers-and-wearing-his-varsity-jacket is standing there, arms held wide open.

“Don’t call me that, you idiot!” Instead of a hug, Alfred #2 smacks Alfred the roommate  in the face with the foam hand.

Boisterous laughter from Alfred gets people staring at them, if they weren’t already. “Did you enjoy the game, though?” he asks, managing to still get his hug by trapping the new guy in his arms.

“Absolutely not! I thought I was going to have a heart attack!”

“Hahaha!”

Peter watches them, wide-eyed with wonder. This must be the hockey player. Alfred never mentioned that they were twins.

“Peter!”

He startles on hearing his name. He must’ve zoned out because now the two Alfreds are standing side by side in front of him. Original Alfred has his arm slung over foam-hand Alfred and Peter notices the latter is slightly taller, maybe a bit wider too under that puffy jacket.

“This is my brother, Matthew,” Alfred introduces. “Mattie, that’s Peter. New roommate  _ and _ the cheer squad mascot. Cool, right?”

“Enough with the Mattie, I said, I’m _ older _ than you.” Matthew huffs at Alfred but all his ire disappears once he looks over at Peter. “Hey, nice moves and nice to finally meet you.”

“Same!” Peter nods enthusiastically. “Alfred says you play hockey.”

“I do,” Matthew beams and it’s like being bathed in holy light, the kind that makes you feel as if all is right in the world. “It’s still the off-season but our team is looking good.”

“I’ll be cheering for you guys, then, too!” Peter exclaims. “Let’s get along!”

“Looking forward to it.”

“So, uh, Matt and I are gonna grab a bite,” Alfred says, finally disentangling himself from his brother. “And…”

“Okay, sure.” Peter doesn’t mind being dismissed at all. Actually, he thinks he needs a breather right about now. Too much awesome in front of him. Argh, why can’t his brothers be this cool? Almost right after the thinks that thought he regrets it.

“Oh look, there’s Arthur!”

Just like that chill of the night seeps right back into Peter’s bones, rooting him to reality. Damn it. He forgot all about him. Peter turns to Alfred, telling him they should go ahead while Peter takes on the heroic duty of keeping Arthur at bay but the look on his face holds Peter’s mouth shut.

Lamplight gleams over the oval lenses, hiding his eyes. The welcoming smile from a second ago has turned rigid round its curve. It takes Peter a second to realize that it’s Matthew that he’s staring at. Alfred has bounded across the parking lot and is now returning with Arthur in tow.

“--all the way back there?” Alfred is asking, too chirpy for someone who just got out of an exhaustive two-hour game.

“I, er, was just about to… leave.”

_ Bullshit _ , Peter thought.

“No way!” Alfred pouts, tugging a little more insistently now. “Our post-game dinners are like a thing now! Besides, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

“Oh alright, just… give me back my hand, lad.”

“Oops, sorry.”

Arthur composes himself in a breath, adjusting his gloves from where they had slipped off courtesy of Alfred’s pulling. “Hello, Peter. Great work as usual.”

“Hmph.” Peter gets a Look that tells him Arthur did not like that response and would be lecturing him about it later.

“Art, this is my brother Matthew. Matthew, this is Peter’s brother Arthur. Though you can probably tell by their eyebrows already, haha.”

“I thought you looked familiar,” Arthur tells Matthew, a muted wryness in the way he holds out his hand. “Thank you for the debriefing earlier. Very helpful in allowing me to follow the game. Arthur Kirkland.”

“It was no problem,” Matthew takes the proffered hand with a firm shake and a gentle smile. “Saves us from breaking the ice now, eh.”

“Very true.”

“You guys met already?” Peter stares up at them, suddenly (and unhappily) aware of how he’s the shortest of the lot.

“We happened to be sitting at the same row of bleachers.” Arthur answers, eyes briefly flicking over to Peter before they focus on Matthew who gives a curt nod.

“The topmost row has a great vantage point.”

“It does.”

“Oh my god, you two!” Alfred wedges himself between them. “Stop being so stiff!” His smile looks a touch anxious, blue eyes gaining a sharper edge when they flick over to Matthew. Something meaningful passes mutely between the brothers and Matthew sighs, conceding.

Peter catches Arthur’s gaze in turn but his brother’s expression is carefully guarded. One of his business personas that Peter has encountered rather frequently. At Alfred’s wheedling, however, the mask melts and Arthur is left looking a little lost. (Secretly, Peter is glad to see it go. It gives him the shivers.)

“My… apologies.”

“Same. How about that dinner, eh?” Matthew picks up the conversation amicably. “To celebrate the win--”

“ _ And _ the once-in-a-lifetime-event of Matt coming to see my game,” Alfred butts in.

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, it’d be cool if you joined us.” Matthew’s warm smile returns when he looks at Peter. “The both of you, that is.”

* * *

It’s not that it was awkward. On the contrary, dinner was lively; more so than usual as Alfred apparently turns a lot more talkative with Matthew around. They discuss their families briefly, sports, classes, about Arthur’s time in University and how it’s all different now. Alfred and Matthew have an abundance of inside jokes that Peter so wants to be in on; they made him realize just how lacking his own upbringing is in sibling love. (Arthur seems to share his sentiment but of course the bastard would never admit it, much less show it on his face.) Peter finds out that Matthew is taking up biology with a focus on conservation, a startling contrast to Alfred’s engineering degree. Aside from the hockey team, Matthew is also in the photography club. Alfred takes this opportunity to extend another invite for Peter to join  _ his _ animanga/gaming club (“I know you like the Power Rangers, Peter!”) Somehow this ends up unearthing Arthur’s stealthily hidden love for ninjas. (“Ninjas?” Peter sends Arthur a judgmental look. “Ninjas are cool!” Arthur protests in all seriousness, which gets Matthew snorting into his drink across the table.) Alfred’s eyes were practically sparkling despite the fact that Arthur had to remind him multiple times that he was interested in  _ real _ ninjas and not the overpowered fictional kind with needlessly drawn out stories and epilogues that don’t make a lick of sense. At which point, Alfred actually stands up and declares “Aha! So you ARE a fan of Naruto!” Complete with an accusing finger pointed at Arthur who turns a very unflattering shade of puce.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Arthur grits out, “I’ll just be taking a short trip to the loo.”

“You’re excused,” Alfred calls after him. “Just don’t try escaping through the window and sending a shadow clone back here in your place.”

Arthur doesn’t dignify that with a response, well aware of the people that are now staring at him after the exchange. His left eye twitches before he turns and leaves.

Peter is still snickering, relishing the rare feat of Arthur getting knocked off his high horse. When he looks around, Alfred is still standing, still staring where Arthur had gone, a goofy expression on his boyish face. Peter wonders if he should tell him to sit down already but Matthew beats him to it.

“Al, finish your food.” The phrase sounds well-worn and tired coming from him.

“Oh! Right.” Alfred seems to bounce in his seat. “Hey Peter, you want some? These sour cream fries are delicious! What do they call it over at your place again?”

“We call them chips,” Peter replies, grabbing a couple off Alfred’s plate. “Ours is more thick cut, though. And it’s usually just plain fried. Sometimes with gravy.”

“Huh.” Alfred chews thoughtfully. “I could try that for dinner sometime.”

“What, fish and chips?”

“Yeah.”

Peter does a mental fist pump. “That would be awesome.”  _ Okay, now play it a little cooler.  _ “Hey Matt, do you like cooking, too?”

“Me?” Matthew looks surprised. “I guess I do, but it’s really Alfred’s thing. I just help out most of the time.”

“Aw, you did more than help, bro!” Alfred playfully hits his shoulder. “Remember that sushi tempura?”

“ _ Sushi tempura?” _

Matthew groans. “Of all the things to bring up...”

“What’s sushi tempura?” Peter looks between them, curious. “Like a set meal?”

“No,” Matthew spares him a haunted look. “We deep fried a sushi roll.”

“And Matt wore a ninja costume so it looked pretty authentic!” Alfred declares proudly before chugging down his drink.

Peter decides he is both amazed and afraid of these brothers. On one hand -- super talented, charismatic, and both athletic to be granted scholarships. On the other --  _ deep fried sushi. _

“Aaah!” Alfred sits back wearing a satisfied grin. “I still can’t believe Arthur likes  _ ninjas _ .”

“Well... people are allowed to like what they like,” Matthew says lightly, pushing his glasses up so he can look Alfred in the eye. “So long as it’s not hurting anyone. Besides, Arthur seems like a decent guy.”

Alfred’s lax posture tightens almost imperceptibly. “You mean that?” his eyes search Matthew’s face.

Instead of answering, Matthew defers to their youngest member. “What do you think, Peter?”

“I think he’s too old to be liking ninjas,” Peter replies without remorse. Alfred and Matthew simultaneously glance at each other before looking back at him. “B-But I guess it’s no issue for me.”

“Really?” Alfred turns up a hopeful smile.

“Yeah, I mean…” There’s a slight trepidation at the back of his mind, begging him to stop and realize what’s really going on, but his ego tells him this is his chance. Alfred and Matthew are treating him like he’s their equal, joking like old chums, and Peter so badly wants to keep that. “If - If ninjas make that uptight git happy, then whatever. Poor guy needs something to make him smile more.”

“Aww, you really do care for Arthur!” Alfred coos. “Even if you act super grumpy every time he comes around.”

“That’s because he’s always meddling.”

“Meddling is part of the big brother’s duties, don’t you know?” Matthew informs them, looking smug. “And we can always tell when our dear baby brothers are in trouble. We’ll even save them from nasty old ninjas if we have to.”

Alfred blows a raspberry at him. His tongue is still sticking out when Arthur rejoins them not more than a second later.

“Are we still talking about that?” comes the dry question as Arthur retakes his seat. His color has returned to normal.

“You’ll never hear the end of it, too, once I tell Alistair and the others,” Peter grins, malicious.

Arthur chokes on air for a second before leveling Peter with a threat, “ _ Don’t you dare. _ ”

“You can't stop me~”

“I'll cut off your allowance.”

“Damn it.”

“Hey Arthur, I wanna get dessert,” Alfred declares, procuring a menu that he all but shoves into Arthur’s face. “Their lava cake a la mode looks delicious, right?”

The abrupt proposition catches Arthur by surprise. He blinks at the blown up photo suddenly shoved inches from his face, then he looks at Alfred who’s wearing an expectant grin. “You… want dessert?”

“Uhuh. That game seriously drained me, y’know. I need to refill.”

Peter could hear the screech of Alfred’s chair as he moves closer to Arthur with the menu. It’s a grating sound that he’s sure is going to get him stern words on proper dining decorum. 

“Very well. The lava cake, was it?”

“Yes!”

_ Wait -- what? _

“Are they… always like that?”

Peter’s indignation is put on hold on hearing Matthew’s question. Violet eyes are focused on their brothers, the wondering gaze sliding over to Peter to let him know that he is supposed to answer.

“Uh. Yeah,” Peter fumbles forming a smirk. “It’s cool. We’ve accepted that he’s kind of a glutton.”

 

Finally having had enough of Alfred shoving the menu in his face, Arthur grabs it to keep still; instead of holding the menu itself, however, Arthur’s hand lands on top of Alfred’s. The younger man’s energetic chatter on the merits of each food item stumbles for half a heartbeat as he stares at the point of contact.

(Matthew wants to laugh. He can almost see steam rushing out of his brother’s red-tipped ears.)

“If you want dessert, might as well get one we can all share, yes?” Arthur points out sensibly, unaware of Alfred’s plight. He scans the menu now that it isn’t about to poke an eye out, finding the list of cakes and other sweet treats.

Alfred licks his lips, pursing them in a fit of mental preparation before replying with a subdued “Okay.”

 

“That he is,” Matthew concludes knowingly, humor in every syllable.

Peter finds the statement cryptic, until he looks over and sees what Matthew is seeing.


	4. Chapter 4

“Sadik, I need back up!”

“Kind of occupied right now, Al.”

“What? Shit.”

“Alfred-kun, on your left.”

“Wha -- Oh fuck. Fuck. Take that! Haha! Thanks, Kiku.”

“Anytime.”

“Think you can get me, huh? No way your skeezy tactics will ever defeat the  hero--”

“Alfred watch out!”

 

A bomb explodes right under his feet, sending pixelated shrapnel everywhere and draining Alfred’s health points.

“Aw man!”

“You did not just get taken out by a bomb I planted,” Sadik’s voice crackles through his headset.

“Uh…”

“Nice work, _hero_.”

“Well I didn’t see it,” Alfred pouts even though the other man can’t see him.

“That’s kind of the point, genius. You’re not supposed to -- Oh there you are, ya bastard. Boom! Two down, last one, Kiku.”

“I’ve got visual on him.” Kiku’s calm voice contrasts with his boisterous teammates’.

“He’s all yours.”

Kiku executes their last enemy with a swift strike of his katana, ending the three-on-three in their favor. As the post-game screen pops up to show the distribution of experience points and gold, Alfred isn’t really surprised to see he gets the least of the lot with his minimal contribution to the effort. That doesn’t stop his whining, though.

“Rematch! Rematch!” Alfred grins at Kiku who seems game for it, but Sadik has other ideas. “Nuh-uh, no way.”

“Why not?” Alfred sort of wishes Sadik to be here right now instead of just Skyping them from wherever. There’s no way he could resist Alfred’s pleading. He’s been told he has very effective puppy dog eyes.

“You’ve been playing like crap all afternoon,” Sadik tells him without mincing anything. “Tell him, Kiku.”

Alfred looks at the shorter man sitting on the floor not too far from him. “So maybe I died a couple of times. It wasn’t that bad!”

Kiku purses his lips looking between Alfred and the phone in his hand. “You weren’t… up to par… as usual,” he says eventually.

“Hah! Told you!” They can almost see Sadik grinning smugly. “Anyway, I got things to do. Sort out your issues, Al, and then call for a rematch.”

“What _ever_. Next time I see your face, it’s--”

There’s a crackle then Sadik’s audio disconnects, leaving Alfred and Kiku with static. “Do you… still want to play?” Alfred ventures.

“I don’t think so,” Kiku replies in his ever-careful tone, pulling out his earbuds. Seeing that gets Alfred pulling down his own headphones to hang around his neck. “Rather, I think we should talk.”

“What about?” Alfred blinks his big blue eyes, hoping that it would throw off the other guy. He blinks in vain.

“Sadik-san is right, you have been… different…lately.”

“H-Have I?” Alfred looks away, running his eyes over the ceiling, the bookshelf (there’s a new figurine he hasn’t seen before), and finally hiding them behind his phone just to avoid Kiku’s inquiring gaze. He exits the app screen and opens up a his web browser to do… something.

“You’ve been coming to the club room in alarming frequency these past few days.”

“Calling it ‘alarming’ is kind of extreme, isn’t it?” Alfred peeks over the top of his screen, blue light reflected on his glasses that have slid down his nose.

“If I remember correctly,” Kiku’s voice is still pleasantly soft but the look in his eyes are blade-sharp. “You vowed to spend less time with extra curriculars since you’re on your last year already and you needed less distractions. Football is keeping you busy enough, you claimed.”

“Well -- That’s _true_ , but… sometimes a guy just needs to find a place to relax, you know?”

“So you are having troubles?” It’s posed as a question but, coming from Kiku, it’s more of a statement.

Alfred sighs, finally setting his phone facedown. “Something like that…”

“Is it about your classes?”

“Nah, they’re fine.” Alfred waves a hand dismissively, then pauses. “Well, except for Philo. Still can’t get a hang of the damn thing.” His original plan on asking Arthur for help on that has failed spectacularly. Every time he opens up an email or scrolls down his contacts to call, he’s distracted by the darnedest things -- the photo he has for Arthur’s contact details, a memory from dinner last Saturday, just… imagining Arthur’s voice when he picks up the call. Alfred is so gone it’s not even funny. “It’s more like a… personal problem.”

Feliks made it sound so trivial, like crushing on a roommate’s sibling is an everyday occurrence. He sounds very sure, too, that Arthur has been ‘putting the moves’ on Alfred with everything he has done. “It’s all part of courtship and you know it,” Feliks told him when, one week later, Alfred claimed he still hasn’t done a thing due to not even knowing _what_ to do about his damn epiphany. “The ball’s in your court, quarterback, go ask him out!”

Matthew already went the extra mile of ‘screening’ his potential boyfriend, even doing his best impression of a concerned-relative-threatening-bodily-harm-should-you-hurt-their-loved-one (which wasn’t much intimidating but Alfred appreciated the sentiment. Kind of.) He also sent Alfred a very strongly-worded email Sunday morning, ranting on how could he have not seen the guy’s intentions from a mile away. Alfred replied that he didn’t _know_ that was what it was, he just generally liked being around Arthur a lot. Especially when it was just the two of them (no offense to Peter.) The mess of letters and numbers that came after was probably Matthew hitting his head on his phone.

Peter seems to be looking at him differently, too. Like he suspects something. Or worse, that he _knows_ … Or maybe Alfred is just being paranoid.

“Would it help if you talked about it?” Kiku asks, snapping Alfred out of his musings. “I am willing to listen.”

“Thanks, Kiku, you’re real pal.” Letting out a breath, Alfred wonders how he’s supposed to break it gently to one of his closest friends. He should probably start by dispersing the worst. “It’s not… life-threatening or anything like that.”

Good call, Kiku’s posture has relaxed by a huge degree.

“I just… realized,” Alfred continues. “That I have these… strong feelings… for someone. They’re really cool, you know, and we have so much fun hanging out and -- get this, he likes _ninjas_ which is so weird but also kind of just _so_ like him, y’know? He doesn’t smile a lot, though, more like he has this sort-of smug look all the time which should be annoying but then--”

“Alfred-kun,” Kiku cuts in, sounding amused. “It doesn’t look like there is any problem.”

“But there is!” Alfred insists. “Didn’t you hear just how great he is? Probably should have a capital G there, damn it. He’s like way out of my league, man.”

“Ah.”

“How do I win him over, Kiku?”

Kiku has never seen Alfred so… forlorn. He’s known him since Alfred first entered W University, bright-eyed and passionate, always ready to take charge of things especially those that spark his interest. Like the animanga club that has been getting less and less popular but that didn't stop Alfred from going all out during recruitment season. Sometimes just looking at Alfred makes Kiku tired. So much energy cannot possibly be contained in one person but Alfred has proven him wrong time and again, putting 150% effort into everything he does. (Their maid café’s phenomenal success last year can be attributed to Alfred’s gamely get up in puffy frills. Photos are still being auctioned at four-figure amounts as far as Kiku knows.) To see him so listless -- and over a crush, too -- makes Kiku realize just how young he truly is despite appearing bigger than life most of the time. It’s humbling, that Alfred trusts him enough to show this side of him but at the same time…

“Haven’t you had girlfriends before, Alfred-kun? The general principle should be the same.”

“Well, _yeah_ , but I never had a _boyfriend_ before.”

Kiku stares, uncomprehending. “What makes you think I have experience in that area?”

Alfred pointedly looks at Kiku’s lap where a guy is resting his head, line markings on his tanned cheek from the creases on Kiku’s shorts. He’s been there since they started their game session an hour ago, just plopped down without preamble and dozed off. Kiku wasn’t even phased. Hell, he even patted the guy’s head and Alfred swears he heard him purr like a cat.

“It’s not like that,” Kiku tells him, not flustered in the least. When Alfred only continues to stare, he sighs. “We really are just friends, Alfred-kun.”

“Aren’t you two sleeping together?”

Kiku hides a smile, gesturing to the man on his lip with a gentle hand. “In this sense, definitely. We regularly fall asleep at each others’ places and I think I do have some of his clothes stocked in my cabinets. We are comfortable with each other, that is all.” Unable to suffuse the thought, Kiku shares, “Herakles makes for a very good pillow.”

“So you’re... _not_ together.” Alfred scratches his head. “I thought you liked him?”

“I do,” Kiku confirms. “But the type of ‘like’ that I have for Herakles is different from your current predicament.”

To have that kind of assurance… Alfred feels a little jealous. “I want to fall asleep with Arthur, too,” he pouts.

“I’m sure Davie-san would--“ Kiku catches himself. “Did you just say ‘Arthur’?” he asks.

“What do you mean ‘Davie’?” Alfred demands at the same time.

All of a sudden, Kiku looks uncertain. “I thought…”

“You _thought_?”

“Well… you said you wanted to focus on football...“

Alfred didn’t even wait for Kiku to finish. “ _Yeah,_ but it wasn’t because I liked the captain.” He pauses. “Not that I don’t _like_ him, God no, Davie is a nice guy but I don’t… it’s not like… not the same with Arthur.”

“Arthur.” Kiku repeats and Alfred realizes he’d said the name out loud. Twice now.

Shit. He wasn’t supposed to reveal identities. It would’ve been easier to ask for advice if Kiku didn’t know… Oh no. Kiku’s gone silent. Alfred knows Kiku’s silences, mostly because he usually talks over them, but this one is different. Alfred doesn’t know if he should break this one.

Thankfully, someone else breaks it for him.

“Do you hear that phone ringin’?” a slow and sleep-scratched voice asks.

Alfred blinks. He… doesn’t hear a phone anywhere. It's so quiet you could hear a pin drop in here. He wonders if Herakles is sleep talking again -- it wouldn’t be the first time -- but when he looks over, Herakles is apparently awake. And he’s smiling.

“Because I _called it_ ,” he finishes, the dramatic twist lost on his lazy demeanor.

Just a little, Kiku smiles, too.

* * *

 

Alfred can’t recall when he last spoke to Herakles (if ever) despite them frequenting the same club room for the past three years. Actually, Alfred isn’t sure if Herakles is even part of the animanga club. He’s just… there. What little Alfred knows of him (Greek, likes cats, has been at W University for close to 8 years by now), he found out from Kiku.

Herakles, on the other hand, seems to know a lot about him. “I’ve seen you two around campus.”

Alfred waits for any further explanation -- if someone he barely knows can apparently figure out his inclinations then who knows who else had caught on? -- but he is disappointed when Herakles ends up staring off into space. “What… that’s it?” he prompts.

“Hm?”

“You said you knew that I liked-” Alfred lowers his voice to say “ _Arthur._ ”

“Yeah.” Herakles nods solemnly. “It was obvious.”

“But… _how?_ ” Alfred himself had only come to terms with it less than two weeks ago. Sure he might've mentioned him a couple of times to Kiku here but, as already pointed out, he hasn't really spent much time at the club recently. So where could Herakles have gotten that idea?

“Herakles-kun can be very observant,” Kiku explains, taking pity on Alfred.

“Uh. Okay?”

“I don't think I've met this Arthur-san before.”

Alfred hugs a sushi-shaped cushion to his chest. “He’s not at school,” he tries to be evasive but stops when he realizes his phrasing makes Arthur look bad. He quickly revises, “Well, he used to attend here but like he graduated already… um, years ago…”

“Graduated,” Herakles says. “Must feel nice.”

“Years ago,” Kiku repeats, eyeing Alfred critically.

“Yeah, he’s a lawyer now.”

“I see.”

Alfred doesn't think he's off the hook yet, so he adds, “He used to be student council president.” That seems to work. Kiku has a high level of respect for authority figures.

“And how did you meet?”

“He's my roommate’s older brother.” Alfred frowns. “You know Peter.”

“Alright.”

“So…” Alfred ventures once Kiku seems satisfied with his background check. “Any tips on how I can win him over?”

Kiku’s reply is automatic. “Just be yourself.”

Off to the side, Herakles yawns.

“Kikuuu!”

“Wha-What is it?”

“I can't do that!” Alfred wails. “I have to impress him!”

“You are plenty impressive, Alfred-kun,” Kiku assures him.

“Not to him!”

“Pretty sure he’s smitten with you,” Herakles says, cradling his cheek on one palm.

Alfred blushes fiercely. “You don't know that!”

“Then he hates you.” Herakles watches unblinkingly as Alfred pales at his words.

“T-That’s not…” Alfred hates how even the thought of it disturbs him. “Arthur is 100% nice to me, okay? He’s a gentleman, too. He wouldn't… If I tell him how I feel…” A deep discomfort ripples through his expression. “I can't do it. That would be overstepping my bounds or something, right? I - I don't want him to _hate_ me.”

Herakles blinks at him.

Kiku chastises the Greek man wordlessly. ‘ _Look at what you've done_.’

“I'm just making it simple for him.” Herakles remains unfazed. “If he doesn't think he stands a chance then he should best leave it.” He turns to Alfred. “Do you want to risk what you have with Arthur right now?”

The club room has never held such stiff silence until that moment. Kiku looks between Herakles and Alfred, he could almost see the inner cogs of their minds working with all that concentration.

“If it's for something better, I would,” Alfred finally responds with caution. “Things are great as they are right now but I really feel like… like we could be _more_.” He might have sighed at this point, eyes going a little wistful. “And I don't want to miss out on that.”

Kiku is touched by the heartwarmingly honest statement. He sends a quiet and grateful smile in Herakles’ direction before posing his question to Alfred. “In that case, what are you waiting for?”

“A plan.” Steely resolve shines in Alfred’s eyes, emphasized by the framed glasses over them. “Something that would sweep him off his feet.”

“Take him to a fancy restaurant,” Herakles suggests.

“We already do that.”

“Then, a more private and cozy café?” Kiku chimes in.

“Done.”

“Movies?”

“Like, one time and all he did was critic everything. Not exactly my fondest memory of him.”

“Study dates.”

“Er. Funny thing but ah… That's kind of the usual too.”

“Alfred-kun…” Kiku leans in with a crinkle between his brows. “Are you _sure_ you two are not dating already?”

That makes Alfred go red in the face. “He never said those were dates, okay? But yes, thank you for reminding me that I am oblivious.”

Herakles cracks a grin. “Amusement parks?”

“Ooh! That's a good one but… There isn't anywhere nearby. Wouldn't it look cheap if I ask him to drive us that far?” Alfred sort of regrets not getting his driver’s license now but it's not like he has a car to drive in the first place. He gets two nods.

“What does he like, then?”

“Um. He likes to read. And I think Peter said that he crochets… whatever that is. He likes mysteries. And uh, historical stuff.”

“How about taking him to a museum, then?”

“Aww but I hate museums!”

Kiku raises a brow. “You should learn to compromise in these kinds of things, Alfred-kun.”

“You're right. Okay, I can brave a museum for Art.” Alfred pauses, snorts. “Hey, maybe I could use that pickup line about not touching the masterpiece. Heh.”

“If you must,” Kiku smiles wryly.

“Okay so that's Plan A. What else?”

“Sleepovers.”

“ _Where?_ My dorm room? That's totally unromantic. Plus, his brother is there.”

“His place?”

“That's moving too fast!!!”

“Something slower, then…” Kiku goes silent as he ponders, racking through every dating sim scenario in memory.

“A walk around the park?” Herakles suggests.

“I could try that… But then what?”

Herakles has his eyes closed, seemingly already asleep with how he’s tilting sideways, but then he says, “A picnic.” and Alfred’s eyes go wide.

“That’s… That's perfect!”

“You could cook for him,” Kiku adds, getting into the idea. “Homemade food shows that you care about them, having put much thought into making what they like.”

“You got that right!” Alfred wears a giddy smile. “So I just have to find out his favorite food and I'm all set! Thanks so much, you guys!”

“It's nothing, Alfred-kun, we are very glad to help. Is there anything else?”

“Nope, the hero has to make his own strategy from here on out.”

“I see.”

“Although,” Alfred turns sheepish. “If you do know anyone who can tutor me in Philosophy that’d be great too, eheh.”

Herakles blinks. “I'm taking Philosophy. Who's your prof?”

“Francis. But I thought you were doing Anthro?”

“That was two years ago,” Kiku informs him. “He shifted to a Philo major.”

“Shifted again?”

“Do you want help in Philo or not?” Herakles asks, frowning, clearly touchy with the subject of his extended schooling.

Alfred decides it isn't wise to bite the hand that just fed him.

* * *

There's a skip in his step, going up the three floors to get to his dorm room. Alfred has been guessing what Arthur’s favorite food could be ever since he left the club room, thinking of the most British food he knows. Fish and chips? Scones? Shepherd's pie? He has never made any of those before but everything is on the internet these days, he feels confident that he can find a delicious recipe that Arthur would enjoy.

Turning the key and pushing the door open, he catches an accented voice.

“--busy. We’re doing a group project at Raivis’ and I have to be there.”

Peter’s in. Good, Alfred thinks, maybe he can ask him now. But then someone else says, “What am I supposed to do with the other one?” and Alfred’s heart stutters.

“Bring your secretary, ask out a client, I don't care,” Peter retorts. “Why are you even here? You're supposed to be at work right now.”

“I’m--”

“I’m baack~” Alfred strides in, grinning. “Hey, Arthur~ I thought I heard your voice.” He winks. “What’s up?”

“O-Oh. Hello, Alfred.” Arthur’s stiffly crossed arms loosens some. He’s standing in the middle of the room facing Peter’s bunk where his little brother sits, both arms and legs crossed defensively. “I had business with the University’s board and was just paying Peter a visit. Are you done with classes already?”

“Yup,” Alfred drops his backpack on the bed. “But I still have football practice. Just dropped by to get a change of clothes then I’m off.”

“See, Arthur,” Peter chirps. “Some people have actual important things to do with their time. Now, shoo.”

“What’s going on?” Alfred looks between them, absently stuffing a clean shirt and pants into his pack.

“I got two tickets to the theater for next weekend,” Arthur says. “I was asking Peter to come with.”

Peter shakes his head, smirking at Alfred. “He forgets that no one else likes having everything they do narrated through song and dance numbers.”

“So… a movie?”

“Ugh, if only,” Peter huffs. “It’s a play.”

“I told you, it’s a musical,” Arthur interjects. “There’s a difference.”

Alfred nearly jumps in excitement, a flashing signal in his head telling him that a golden opportunity is right in front of him. “I love musicals!”

“You do?” Arthur’s countenance lightens as he turns to Alfred.

“Yeah!” Alfred zips up his bag before it’s contents fall out. He can feel his hands trembling. “My brother and I watched Chicago a few years back. He had Mr. Cellophane playing on loop for days.”

Arthur’s brows furrow. (They look so cute! Alfred’s internal voice squeals.) “Why Mr. Cellophane?”

“He was in a phase,” Alfred grins. “Anyway, what show is it?”

“Annie.”

“Nice. I’ve only seen the movie versions, though.”

“Why don’t _you_ go with him, then?” Peter suggests, already knowing where this was headed the moment Alfred stepped into the room. “You’re just waiting for the other brackets to finish their games, aren’t you?”

“Uh, yeah.” Alfred scratches his cheek. “I’m kind of free next weekend.”

“So you are,” Arthur grins approvingly. “Would you like to accompany me then? The venue is another town over, not too long a drive but since it’s an evening show, we’ll be staying there overnight.”

Watching a play and then spending the night together? Alfred is honestly shocked he hasn’t combusted yet. “Sounds great.” He stands and hefts his backpack over one shoulder.

“Perfect.” Arthur casually pockets his hands, body language completely open, with a hitched smile in Alfred’s direction.

Peter wants to gag, to shout ‘Stop making googly eyes at each other!’ but at the end of it all, he knows this is his doing. Just give those two any reason at all to be around each other and they’re on it like starving dogs to a t-bone. At least it sounds like he’s going to get the dorm room to himself for an entire weekend. That’s definitely a pro. He clears his throat, getting Alfred’s attention, and then looks down at his watch.

“O-Oh! Ah. I gotta go,” Alfred stammers. “Football practice.”

Arthur seems stunned for a second. “Yes, of course. Can’t have you running late.”

“Bye, Peter!” Alfred makes for the door. “And thanks for the invite, Artie. You can just text me the rest of the details.”

“A-Actually,” Arthur’s feet move as well, seemingly pulled along. “I’m parked nearby, I could --” He pauses just before disappearing into the hallway to look back at Peter. “I’ll be off, then.”

“Yeah, yeah!” Peter calls just before the front door is shut, the lock clicking in place. Honestly, those two.

 

“I don’t want to trouble you,” Alfred says as they step out of the dorms. “Shouldn’t you be like, heading back to work.”

“Yes, well, it’s on the way so there’s really no harm done.” Arthur keeps up with his longer strides with polished dress shoes, long coat swept behind every brisk step.

“Actually, it’s in the opposite direction.” He bends over once they reach the bike racks, fiddling with his lock when he realizes his position. Alfred freezes, suddenly very conscious of his ass sticking out. To be doing these things so carelessly… Damn, he really has been giving the go signal all along without even knowing it. When he chances a look over his shoulder, however, he finds Arthur staring at his face (rather than the other end of him, thank God.) He quickly undos the padlock and straightens up, stuffing it into one of the backpack’s side pockets. “I’ll be fine.”

“Oh, alright.” Arthur concedes, the slightest downturn on his lips marking his disappointment. “Just… put on your helmet before getting on that thing.”

“It’s called a bike, Arthur. Surely you know what a bike is?”

“Of course I do!”

Securing the strap under his chin, Alfred hops on, grinning. “See ya around~”

“Be careful, then.”

“I will!”

‘ _Can’t get into an accident before our date._ ’ Alfred thinks giddily as he moves out to the road. The bike speeds away, much like his racing thoughts. He has a date with Arthur in a week! This is it. His big chance, his moment. He can’t contain the euphoria that’s got his heart thumping so loud. He shouts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... sorry Davie, but your episode ruined my life ugh…
> 
> Matthew and Mr. Cellophane is a big shoutout to the [Hetalia Cabaret! FST](http://hetalia.livejournal.com/6491033.html) that I’ve loved since forever. Y'all better take a listen bec I spent an hour digging through LJ archives for that.
> 
> What's up with Herakles taking 8 years at W University? Well he first signed on for an Economics degree but that went bust. So he got into Archeology, got bored and took a two year break. He met Kiku around this time. He took up Anthropology when he got back then he shifted (again? finally??) to Philosophy.  
> Any relation to figures living or deceased is purely coincidental.
> 
> So hey readers! Hello! We've been together for 10k words already and I'd really appreciate some feedback.. Is the 'telling Alfred's story through other people's POV' format working for you guys? It's actually just my excuse to get as many countries as I can nail but if that makes the story flow awkward then we can certainly work something out~


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks very much to everyone who left a nice review last time! It's a relief to know you don't mind the other characters' POV so I did a bit of a recap of everyone just before the big date... Sorry in advance if this chapter seems filler-y... It's going to be pure Alfred and Arthur (finally!) next chapter so I hope we can all be patient~

One week to go and Alfred is already planning what clothes to wear. He does his laundry ahead of schedule, segregating the items until he comes up with a decent set of outfit options. He asks Peter if he’s going to need a tie and finds himself at the end of a look that’s a bit judgmental. It kind of reminds him of Arthur, the way Peter has one bushy brow arched to a point.

“No…?”

“Haha, you’re right! That was a trick question!” Alfred forces a laugh to cover up the awkward silence. He quickly turns his back to his roommate and resumes folding.

 

Five days to go has Matthew talking him out of getting a haircut, gripping his arm vice-like as he steers him back to University grounds.

“It’s just a play, Al,” Matthew hisses. “He’s not bringing you in to meet the family. Relax.”

“We’ll be in close proximity for the entire weekend!” Alfred would shake his brother if his arms weren’t currently pinned to his sides by said brother. “Hey, quick favor. Smell my collar. Does it smell weird? Should I use a different body spray? Also, do you have a coat I can borrow?”

“ _Jesus_.”

 

Three days to go, Arthur sends him their itinerary.

He’ll pick up Alfred on Saturday morning and they should get to their lodgings after lunch. They have the afternoon to sightsee before the show starts at eight. They’ll be leaving at noon the next day so it’s best to just stay in until then. Arthur suggests some of the indoor amenities to occupy them but all Alfred can think about is how their schedule doesn’t leave him any space to prepare a meal himself. He doubts he can make anything proper in a hotel room, anyway, that is if he would even be _allowed_.

 

With two days left Alfred is languishing to Kiku again. They’re at the library, which Kiku is thankful for since it keeps Alfred’s whining to a whisper.

“I’m going to screw up, Kiku, I just know it.”

“You cannot say that when you haven’t even tried.”

“But my awesome plan is ruined!” Alfred laments. “I haven’t even bought groceries.”

“Then there is no shame in postponing until you are ready,” Kiku says evenly, his pen steadily churning out an essay.

“Arrghhh!” His tormented wail is muffled into the sleeves of his jacket. “I hate it when you make too much sense.”

 

On his last Friday class, Alfred barely pays attention to Francis’ lecture. His eyes keep darting to the clock over the whiteboard and then to the door. A countdown is ticking in his mind, echoing in his ears. He can’t recall ever feeling this nervous over a date. Granted, it’s not official since Arthur doesn’t know it is one but Alfred is hoping to make clear his intentions here.

“Hey Alfred, like, look alive man. Hellooo~”

Feliks’ hand is right in front of his face, bangles jingling tunelessly. Alfred doubles back and nearly falls off his chair. Thankfully, the sounds of the class collectively getting up and chattering covered the screech. Class is over and Alfred did not absorb a single thing.

“Oh, man.”

“You okay?” Feliks asks, expression furrowed with concern.

“No,” Alfred says emphatically. “It’s tomorrow.”

“What is?”

“My… well, it’s kind of...”

“You look like you’ve been handed a death sentence,” Feliks surmises. In a conniving whisper he asks, “Is this about… _you know who_? Because if it is, I’d say you deserve being miserable. That’s what you get for keeping me out of the loop.”

“ _Feliks._ ”

“Alfred!” An airy voice from the podium calls, making both teens look over. Francis gestures for Alfred over with a wave of his hand. “A word, if you please.”

“Great,” Alfred mutters. “You go ahead Feliks.”

Feliks looks like he wants to argue but ultimately stays mum. He pats Alfred on the shoulder. “Don’t fret, a wedge breaks another wedge. Laters.”

Alfred jogs down to the podium, clearing his expression. “Hey, Francis.”

Violet eyes gleam kindly. Francis steps down and fixes his ascot. “How are things with you, Alfred?”

“Er, things?”

“You know… school, extracurriculars, extra _extra_ curriculars, hm?” Francis’ accent alone can’t be blamed for that last bit sounding like an innuendo.

Alfred gulps. “T-They’re okay, I guess.”

“No trouble in your other classes?”

“None that I know of. A-Am I in trouble?”

“I did not say that, _non_.” Francis gives a reassuring smile. “You are on sports scholarship, correct? What was it, soccer? Rugby?”

“Football.”

“Ah, yes. And how is the season so far? Winning?”

“Yeah, we’re up for the quarter finals next week.” Alfred can’t help being a little proud of that. That was the stage where they lost last year but their chances are looking brighter this time around.

“Congratulations!” Francis says like he means it enough, despite clearly not following the sport. He doesn’t look much of a sporty kind of guy in Alfred’s opinion. “I’m happy that it’s working out for you. However.”

Here comes Alfred’s dreaded part.

“To maintain that scholarship, you have to average a certain grade, yes?”

 _Knew it_ , Alfred sighs. “I do.”

“Oh, don’t look so glum,” Francis waves a hand at him as if it would dispel the dark air.

“But I’m failing, right?” Alfred looks him in the eye. He’s too used to this routine by now. “That’s why you wanted to talk. Can I do something for extra credit?”  He knows he’s not the brightest, the main reason he got into such a prestigious University is because of his athletic skills (and who can resist his charming personality?). A research paper or two won’t kill him. Probably.

Francis clicks his tongue, his expression pitying. “This University works it’s students too hard, I always say. Besides, assigning you a paper would only give me more things to grade,” he laments, dramatically touching the back of his hand to his forehead.

Alfred couldn’t help grinning at that. Sensing the lightened mood, Francis gives a smile of his own.

“I finished tabulating our midterms’ bell curve and you’re not in the red but,” he emphasizes by pointing a manicured finger at the teen. “You’re still a precarious position, young man. Those proof solutions seem very misguided, though you’ve answered other parts of the exam with finesse. What seems to be the problem?”

“It's just… I get the concepts you're teaching. Really.” he stresses. “They're super interesting and they make so much sense but when it comes to applying them I get lost.”

Francis nods. “Mm. I understand that is a common struggle. Might I suggest a tutor then?”

“Actually,” Alfred perks up. “I got this friend - well, he’s friend of a friend. His name’s Herakles--”

“Karpusi?”

“Yeah, you know him?”

“Brilliant mind, just… narcoleptic. He really should take his meds.” Francis shakes his head. With a small huff he ends the digression, engaging Alfred once more. “So Herakles is helping you with the subject?

“He pointed out some helpful references. Library books and stuff. I’m supposed to go over them this weekend but…” Alfred halts, hoping the cut wasn’t obvious but Francis raises a brow at him.

“But…?”

Forced to continue, he says, “I’ve got another thing.”

“A game?”

“No, like… erm.” He really doesn’t want to talk to his professor about this. “More like a day.... Out. With someone.”

Francis laughs.

“What’s so funny?”

“You, dear boy.” He wipes away a wet drop from the corner of his eye. “You could just say that you have a date. I’m not going to be scandalized, I was a teenager once, too, you know~”

“Ah. Yeah.” Alfred shuffles his feet. He’s been psyching himself up about this date for two weeks and now he’s getting cold feet. Typical.

“So that what’s really troubling you, is it?” Francis poses, arms loosely crossed over his chest. “I noticed you were less enthusiastic about class today. Nervous about your date?”

“Pretty much,” Alfred exhales. “Haven’t been on the playing field for a long while.”

“How long?”

“Er… two years, give or take?” At Francis’ dramatic gasp, Alfred hastily clarifies, “B-Because I was busy with football! And acads! Maintaining grade as you’ve said.”

“ _Mon Dieu_. Then you really must make the most of this!” Francis nods to himself, seemingly coming to a decision. “Okay, here is what we’re going to do.”

“We?”

“ _Oui_.” Francis winks. “I don’t want you thinking about academics or anything related to school this coming weekend. The moment you step out of this classroom, I want you to free your mind.”

“I still have football practice--”

The interjection makes Francis scrunch up his nose but he doesn’t let himself be derailed. “After practice then! Forget these fussy academics and _live!_ ”

“Oh, I plan to--”

“ _Non!_ No plans! You must let these things unfold organically~”

“Organically.” Alfred echoes. He kind of likes the sound of that.

“Romance cannot be forced, you know? The heart speaks its own language and you must listen to succeed.”

“I-I can do that!”

“I have no doubt you will.” Francis puts his hands on Alfred’s shoulders, much a like a proud father at his child. Just off those broad shoulders, however, he sees a colleague peeking in through the door. The next class has arrived, apparently. “Dear me, it seems I have stalled you too long.”

Alfred looks behind him to find another Philosophy professor. “H-Hey, Ms. H.”

“Hello, Alfred,” Elizabeta smiles pleasantly. “Francis.”

“So sorry, my dear.” Francis kisses her cheek in greeting. “Just giving a few helpful pointers to our dear students. You know how it is. We’ll be right out.” He turns away to gather his gadgets and papers as the next class files into the lecture hall.

“Don’t ever take engineering tips from Francis,” Elizabeta warns Alfred, though a sparkle in her eyes tells him she’s only teasing. “Everything else is fair game, though.”

“My love advice has never led anyone astray and you know it,” Francis laughs.

“Except for yourself,” Elizabeta counters. “We’re still on for drinks tonight, yes?”

“Of course.” Turning to the class that’s settling down, Francis says, “And you! Don’t give Elizabeta more reasons to drink! She puts it all on my tab, you know.”

Faint laughter erupts and Elizabeta shoos them.  “Out with you!”

* * *

Football practice is over in a breeze. Alfred doesn’t even register his sore muscles as he pedals back to the dorm. Francis is right. And Matthew and Kiku and Peter, too. He shouldn’t overthink this. They’re just going out, they’ve done that before, they’ve had fun. Alfred will just be a little more aware of his feelings this time, a little more engaging, to make sure that Arthur enjoys their time as well.

“Alfred, you’re back!” Peter is sitting on the floor, his laptop on the mattress in front of him, blaring what looks to be another Power Rangers episode. He pauses it once Alfred comes in. “I thought I was gonna starve to death.”

“Somehow I doubt that.” Alfred eyes the soda cans and chip bags on the floor. “Busy studying, are we?” He empties his entire gym bag into a laundry basket, pulling out a water bottle from the pile and setting it on his study desk on his way to bed.

“Very busy,” Peter nods in all seriousness. “Might even have to call a few friends over for a movie marathon. You know, for science.”

Alfred snorts, plopping down over the covers. “Just don’t touch my stuff, ‘kay?”

“Brit’s honor.” Peter makes a stiff gesture, right hand raised in promise. “But just to be safe, you better lock your underwear drawer.”

“Do I want to know why?”

“Morgan and Y are coming.”

“They’re not gonna--” Alfred stops, raising his head to meet Peter’s serious look. “They _wouldn’t_.”

“I said just to be safe,” Peter shrugs.

Alfred drops his head and closes his eyes. “Fine, fine~”

“So what’s for dinner? I, er, got those little tomato… things...”

“Tomato things?”

“Those little round ones for salads?”

“Cherry tomatoes!”

“Yeah.”

“Why do you have cherry tomatoes?”

“Confiscated them from Seb.”

“The Italian guy?”

“That’s Seb. His stomach’s acting up again. The doctor said to lay off tomatoes but he apparently thought smaller portions would be safe, the idiot.”

“Is he acidic?”

“Something like that. Ces and Y practically screamed their lungs out at him. Broke our eardrums, too.”

“Poor kid. He should be avoiding sodas, too, then.”

“He should?”

“Yep. Also maybe try chewing gum? When he gets urges to eat tomatoes.”

“ _Why_ do you know these things?” Peter wonders aloud, at the same time composing a text of those pointers to send to Seb.

“Er… experience? Anyway,” Alfred sits up. “We still have canned chicken breast. I'll fix something up with those tomatoes.”

“Can I help?”

“Sure.”

They head for the kitchen at the first floor, greeting fellow dormers who are similarly making their own dinner.

A brief chime comes from Peter’s phone as they gather the ingredients. “Seb says thanks,” he relays, pulling a bag of tomatoes from the fridge.

“He’s very welcome.” Alfred grins, his eyes gleaming when he sees the plump red fruits. “And tell him these beauties won't go to waste.” He prepares [dinner](http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/chicken-breasts-with-tomato-herb-pan-sauce-366432) with ease, chatting lightly with Peter and the other guys in the kitchen.

Someone making pasta asks for some tomatoes and trades them with herbs. Another who made too much soup shouts that they’re free to get from the pot. There’s a line over at the microwave for those reheating their stuff. It’s lively and aromatic, a perfect Friday evening. Alfred moves easily through the kitchen and finishes the dish in record time. Peter saves them a spot at the dinner table where it pretty much turns into something of a potluck meal with the rest of the dormers.

“You really should learn how to cook,” Alfred says, pointing a skewered tomato at Peter. “I don’t want you to be one of those microwave zombies reheating every meal.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” a guy from the other end of the table asks, touchy.

“It takes the fun out of cooking.” Alfred replies, simple and honest, getting a couple of heads along the table nodding.

“True, true.”

“W-Well, we always had maids at home to do it for us,” Peter defends.

“You’re not always going to have maids,” Alfred admonishes. “Arthur cooks, doesn’t he?”

Peter blanches. “He does and he’s terrible at it.”

“Really?”

“Burns everything to a char. Pretty sure he’s all chummy with the fire department back at home. Got them on speed dial or something.”

Alfred can’t decide if he’s feeling amused or concerned at this revelation. “What does he usually cook?”

“Eh, scones and stuff.” Peter spears a cut of chicken on his plate, using it to pick up sauce before taking a bite.

“What else?”

“Hard-as-rock meat pies.”

“Pffft.”

“And my first dinner here, he tried to feed me curry.”

“Curry sounds nice.”

“It tasted awful. Like he was trying to make his own Worcestershire sauce without fermenting it.” Peter shivers at the memory. “Almost sent me to the E.R.”

“Aw, c’mon. It couldn’t have been _that_ bad.”

At the deadpan look from Peter, Alfred clears his throat. “Does Arthur like curry?” He’s been told to just let things run its course this weekend but he still hasn’t let go of the idea of cooking for Arthur. Alfred had tried making curry once or twice before, he’s semi-confident he can make one that Arthur would like.

Peter hums in thought for a second. “I suppose he does… Why do you ask?”

“Just… wondering what his favorite food is, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh.” Before Peter could grill him further, the guy sitting next to Alfred asks him about class assignments. Peter’s not sure but he thinks the guy is named Thaksin.

Apparently, they have a group presentation to make on Monday and Alfred promised to make the prototype.

“Oh yeah, I got it up in my room,” Alfred says. “Just needs a bit of final tweaking then I’ll turn it over to you.”

“Sure. Can we do tests over the weekend, _ana~_?”

“We should. Totally. Except I’ll be out so… maybe just ask the other guys?”

“But…” Thaksin frowns. “What if we find an error?”

“C’mon, you guys are smart! I’m sure you can handle it.” Alfred nudges his shoulder. “I’ll leave my notes with you, just in case.”

Thaksin pushes his glasses up his nose, seemingly unwilling to argue further. “Alright, alright, we’ll take care of it.” He grins a little, nudging Alfred’s shoulder back. ”What’s got you occupied all weekend?”

“Just… something important.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Human names guide:  
> Sebastian/Seb - Seborgia  
> Yolie/Y - Wy  
> Morgan - Molossia  
> Cecílie/Ces - Czech  
> Thaksin - Thailand
> 
> “A wedge breaks another wedge” is the Polish version of the idiom ' _One nail drives out another nail_.' = A new pain or problem will stop you worrying or feeling bad about something else.


	6. Chapter 6

Annie’s Original Broadway Cast recording ferries them through the first hour of the trip, courtesy of Alfred’s phone that automatically paired with the stereo the moment he strapped in. He tries to get Arthur to sing along but is rebuffed every time. Undeterred, Alfred starts singing deliberately off-key until Arthur caves in and joins him -- if only to stop Alfred from butchering N.Y.C.’s reprise. Alfred’s Snap story is already full of clips of Arthur’s singing and it’s only noontime. He’s snapping back Matthew (so as not to break their Snapstreak of 72 days) when Arthur says, “We’re here. A bit early, even.” looking rather happy at the accomplishment.

Alfred looks up from his phone and finds an impressive structure before him. Made of white bricks and dark glass, with gilded lamps on every column, it looks rather old-fashioned but it’s clearly well-maintained. At the corner is a tea shop, fenced in with intricate wrought iron bars. Just over the entrance, Alfred reads _‘World Stars’_ in curling gold letters with ‘CITY CLUB’ in smaller font underneath it. Arthur takes them round to the parking gate where he flashes a card that raises the barrier. Not that old-fashioned, then.

They find a parking space easily enough, right next to a Bentley convertible that Alfred appraises with a wolf-whistle. Arthur laughs at his ogling. He grabs his own suitcase before Alfred can offer to carry it for him and leads them onwards. A quick scan and they’re stepping into an elevator with mirrored walls. Alfred checks his reflection and sees Arthur watching him. He sucks in a breath. He’ll be under that gaze for the entire weekend -- a whole weekend -- he can’t lose his head so early.

“So,” Alfred begins, sidling up to Arthur with his most charming grin.

“I’m thinking we should leave our baggage in the suite before having lunch.”

“Fine with me.”

Arthur taps his card on a sensor on the wall before pressing a button for the 17th floor that sends the carriage rising smoothly. There’s an LED display over the rows of floor buttons that showcases World Star’s prime offerings -- a bar and infinity pool at the top deck, high-end brasseries, and sports centers to name a few.

“Wait… aren’t we supposed to check in first?” Alfred asks midway through.

“No need for that,” Arthur assures him, holding up the same keycard he’d used with the parking gate and the elevator. “I’ve got our rooms all set up.”

“Yo-You _own_ a hotel room?” Alfred gapes, then Arthur’s words register. “No, wait -- Did you just say _rooms_?”

“World Stars isn’t a hotel, lad.”

The elevator comes to a stop and the doors open revealing a carpeted floor and a plush white settee across the way. A vase of lilies stand tall on top of the matching table.

“Looks like it to me.” Alfred looks around to be sure. “See, there’s even hallway furniture and stuff.”

“Do they offend you?” Arthur wonders, turning right at the end of the hall.

“No no no! Not at all,” Alfred quickly denies. “Just that I never really know what to do about them.” They pass by a narrow side table with a large mirror hanging on the wall above it. Alfred’s fingers skitter over its marble top, steering around the leather-bound books propped up for display at the center.  “Like, that was a comfy looking sofa back there.”

“A settee.”

“Right. And I dunno if I’m supposed to just _look_ at it or if I’m allowed to, like, lounge around while waiting for the elevator.”

“You could sit,” Arthur informs him, an amused twist to his lips. “Properly. World Stars is a private club, exclusive to W University alumni.” He stops at the end of the hall facing two doors. “The left door is mine and the right one will be your suite.”

Separate rooms. Alfred tries not to be disappointed and he is saved the effort when Arthur adds.

“There’s an adjoining bathroom between them, so… well, it’s better if I show you.”

“Alright!” Alfred’s excitement swells up again as Arthur opens the left door. “A private club, huh. Do I get my own room when I graduate?” He’s already imagining living next door to Arthur, having tea at the corner shop downstairs, evening swims in the pool on top deck.

“You have to apply first. There’s a very thorough screening process for membership. Lock the door, please.”

Alfred obliges, tailing after Arthur whilst craning his neck to take in the interior. The floor is dark wood and the furnitures are shades of neutral gray with touches of green accents. There’s a bookshelf under the TV mounted on the wall. The living room connects to the kitchen via open floor plan and Alfred is quick to note that the minimalist aesthetic gives the place a very well-kept appearance. Through a doorway from the living room, Arthur shows him the bedroom -- a queen-sized bed with deep emerald sheets, there’s a book on the bedside table, an armoire right beside another door. Going through it leads them to the aforementioned adjoining bathroom. Beside a glass-walled shower is a huge bathtub, the whole place illuminated by warm ambient lighting.

“And this is your suite,” Arthur says, hand on the brass doorknob at the opposite wall from where they’d come in. He twists and pushes but the door doesn’t budge.

Alfred blinks.

“Er… One second.” Arthur turns his back towards Alfred.

He could hear the knob resisting, the clack of its locking mechanisms firmly in place. “Maybe we can open it from the other side?” Alfred swears Arthur freezes up for a second.

“Don’t be ridiculous, the door is just stuck,” Arthur dismisses. “Haven’t been around here in a while. Heh. That’s it. Just stuck. Don’t worry, Alfred. I’m sure--” He makes another attempt but the door remains immoveable. “Damn it.”

Alfred steps forward, taking a peek from the sides. “Should we try coming in through the front door…?” Arthur’s face snaps towards him so quickly it’s only thanks to conditioned reflexes that Alfred backs away in time to avoid a collision. “Whoa.” Arthur is stupidly close… and also… blushing.

Deep green eyes stare up at Alfred for a long moment, until the flush of embarrassment practically covers his whole face. “Change of plans, Alfred. You can have this suite.”

“O… kay...? But where are you--”

“Don’t worry about me.” Arthur turns away and walks out the bathroom, leaving Alfred to scramble after him. “There are plenty of hotels nearby, I’m sure I can--”

“Wait!”

A tight grip halts both their steps. Alfred gulps. He’s holding Arthur’s hand. ...Well, his wrist, anyway. “What the hell just happened? If you forgot your key, can’t you just… I don’t know, call up the receptionist or something. No need to be so brash.”

“I’m afraid having that door unlocked won’t be so easy,” Arthur says, foreboding. “Truth is… I’m afraid you won’t be comfortable sharing a room with me so I thought it best to arrange separate lodgings…”

As Arthur rambles, Alfred feels as if the complicated string of emotions he holds is being forcefully unwinded. Uncomfortable… separate… the words make his head spin. Go with the flow was supposed to be his motto for this but Alfred doesn’t like where this is going.

"I'll sleep on the couch!" he blurts out. Arthur’s stunned stare prompts him to continue. “We don’t _need_ separate rooms, Arthur, c’mon. This place is too big for one person. And it'll be easier to go around if we're coming and going from the same place, yeah?"

“I… I…” Arthur clears his throat, averting his gaze for a second as he composes himself. “That does make sense.”

Alfred beams.

“But.” With a firm word, Arthur arrests his gaze once again. “You are not sleeping on the couch.”

“Why not~ it looks super comfy.”

“You’re my guest, is why,” Arthur harrumphs. “You take the bed and I’ll take the couch.”

“What? But it’s your place!”

“So what I say, goes.”

“Nuh-uh. You take the bed!”

“No, _you_. I insist.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“ _You’re_ being ridiculous.”

“It’s big enough for the both of us!”

In the silence that follows, Alfred _reaaally_ wishes he had just kept his big fat mouth shut. He can feel his palms start to sweat and one of them is still holding Arthur by the wrist. _Shit. Do something, Al!,_ he curses in his head.

"Uh."

_Something actually helpful!_

"I-It's just..."

_Okay, actual words. Great. Keep going._

"You can't sleep on the couch because... because you might hurt your back."

_There you go!_

"Coz you're like, old and stuff already. Wouldn’t want your arthritis acting up, haha."

The touched expression on Arthur's face vanishes and Alfred has no one to blame but himself.

_You complete idiot._

“Why, you…” His brows are twitching and they would be fascinating if there wasn’t a throbbing vein right next to them. “Alright! Fine! We’ll share the bloody bed!”

 

Lunch becomes a tense affair, one that not even the delicate piano music playing in the restaurant can soothe. They’re down at the mezzanine where a handful of high-end restaurants are laid out, boasting specialty cuisines from Asia, Europe, and the Americas. Arthur’s reservation at the Italian restaurant gets them a table for two right by the Venetian windows that offer a gracious view of the city.

It’s a shame that Alfred is missing the view, chin tucked to his chest and trying to count the grains on their table top. He’s pretty sure he crossed a line back there and he cannot believe how things have taken a turn for the worst so quickly. They were fine on the drive over, playing Annie’s soundtrack was a damn good call but now it all seems moot.

Arthur is being civil with him. _Civil!_ Clipped and polite and _ugh, why is he like that?_ Alfred makes a quick glance and finds him occupied with his phone. _Hmph._ And they say it’s the teenagers who have their faces glued to screens. Stupid Arthur. Alfred was just being practical. It’s Arthur’s fault the stupid adjoining room wouldn’t open in the first place. Probably forgot his key and was too ashamed to admit it.

A choked sound from across the table interrupts his thoughts. Disbelief pulls at Arthur’s expression as he stares down his phone, then he snaps his attention to Alfred. “What is the meaning of this?”

Confused that he had somehow managed to piss Arthur off whilst completely avoiding conversation, Alfred frowns. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“This!”

Arthur turns his phone around and Alfred leans in. It’s... his snap story. It shows Arthur, hands on the steering wheel, lips moving soundlessly but the caption tells Alfred everything -- **smile artie** it says followed by a slew of sparkles, a tophat, and grinning emojis. The video cuts to another one of Arthur, still in the same position, still singing voiceless, with raincloud and sun emojis peppered on the screen.

“Ehem.”

Alfred realizes Arthur is still waiting for an explanation. He has a slight blush on his face and Alfred figures he’s probably got an earpiece where the audio plays. “It’s… my snap story…?”

“Filled with clips of me singing?” Arthur’s voice may have gone a little high-pitched with embarrassment, though his volume is still at minimum in consideration of the other dining patrons around them.

“Well,” Alfred knows what he says next could make or break the situation. Best to be honest, then, yeah? “You…” Arthur’s brows knit tighter together but Alfred would _not_ be intimidated damn it. “You have a surprisingly nice singing voice.”

Arthur’s indignant expression falls at hearing the compliment. He sputters, pulls his phone back so he could cross his arms defensively.

“I mean it,” Alfred presses, an uncertain smile surfacing. “So it’s really a shame that you’re giving me the cold shoulder right now.” Arthur looks decently ashamed of his behaviour. “I’m sorry if I crossed a line back at the suite. I didn’t mean to offend, I just thought it would be practical.”

Arthur assesses him briefly, then closes his eyes with a huff. He appears contemplative, lips sealed tight as his jaw works. Finally, he opens an eye. “Apology accepted. I admit to my own faults as well. My temper is apparently very short these days.”

“Stressed from work?”

“Mainly.”

“Then let’s make sure to make the rest of this weekend fun! Deal?”

There’s an open palm extended to him. Arthur blinks at it, then at Alfred who is wearing his usual mega-watt smile. “Very well.” He grips the offered hand in a firm shake.

“I didn’t think you even checked Snapchat anymore,” Alfred says once Arthur returns his hand. He’s been telling himself that he wasn’t actually disappointed when the notifications of Arthur saving his snaps stopped coming in. Not really. It’s not unusual for someone to get bored of things like social media.

“Those red notifications at the corner of the icons get irritating, you know.”

“Wait… Are you mad that I posted those videos of you singing? Because I can take them down.”

Arthur debates for a moment. “No. They’re fine.”

“You can take a shot at me to make it even,” Alfred offers.

“And why would I do that?”

“I dunno… You can send it to Peter? Show him how much he’s missing.”

A conniving grin alights. “I should, shouldn’t I? Doing a group project he said. Hmph.”

“I’m pretty sure he mentioned something about a movie marathon,” Alfred grins against Arthur’s furrowed look, glad not to have that ire directed at him for once. “Let him be, Arthur. Some people just don’t appreciate musical theater.”

“Well, I’m glad you do.”

Their order arrives shortly and Alfred takes the photo for them, showing off the delicious food.

* * *

The cloudy afternoon sees them strolling down the boulevard. Alfred eagerly peers into every shop but he refuses to let Arthur buy him anything at this point. Arthur eventually gets his way after paying for a set of stick-on decals they saw at a sports shop, bearing the logo and likeness of Alfred’s idolized athlete.

“You know I’m probably not even gonna use these?” Alfred says, swinging his hand with the paper bag of their purchase. “It’s a collector’s item. I’ll find a nice frame for it and keep it in mint condition for museums in the future.”

“ _Or_ , you could outrank him someday and get your own line of sports apparel.”

“Ahaha… yeah.”

“Why the uncertainty?”

“I’m just…” Alfred lets out a breath. “I don’t think I could make a career out of football.”

“You’re bloody good at it.” Arthur sounds offended on his behalf. “W University offered you a scholarship so you most definitely have the potential.”

“Football is great, don’t get me wrong.” Alfred quickly amends. “I love the brotherhood, the thrill of the game, but I just don’t… see myself on that field for the rest of my life.”

“Ah.”

“You know what I wanted to be when I was a kid?”

Arthur perks up. “Do tell.”

“I wanted to be an astronaut!” Alfred proclaims, throwing both his hands up in the air. “I wanted to go to Mars and the outer planets! Discover and befriend alien life forms!”

“Why aren’t you at NASA then?”

“The scholarship came.” Alfred lowers his arms. “And I realized exploring the universe could be… lonely. Matt always said that my head was constantly up in the clouds and he’s not wrong. I dreamed so much of going to space I never really thought of how I’d do it. It’s just not realistic anymore, I guess.”

The melancholic slant prompts Arthur to move closer, their arms now brushing with every other step. “It would be a while before they send humans to Mars,” he says in consolation.

“Yeah… I’ll take that chance in my next life.” Alfred nods like it’s a promise. “This time I’ll stay on God’s green earth. Keep in touch with the people important to me, y’know.”

Those blue eyes seem to gain intensity as they flickered over at him. Arthur thinks of them as lightning, striking deep inside him, sparking heat. “Do you… want to know what I aspired to be when I was younger?” he proposes.

“Was it the King of the United Kingdom?” Alfred jests.

“Oh, once or twice,” Arthur agrees. “But then I realized it means I would have to play nice and diplomatic all the time.”

“So what did you decide on?”

“I was going to be a pirate king.” There’s a manic gleam in his eyes as he shoots up on tiptoes, leering at Alfred to be intimidating.

Alfred, for his part, tries not to notice how the passing breeze sweeps Arthur’s bangs in a perfect tousled look, completing the wild persona. He tries, but dear heaven almighty does the mental image of Arthur covered in jewelry with the roughly-refined look of a swashbuckler (in knee-high boots, too) make his blood rush south. “A p-pirate?”

“Yes,” Arthur confirms primly, his rugged edge gone in a blink as he settles back on his heels. “I wanted to make my brothers walk the plank. Or maybe hang them from the bow over a school of starving piranhas.”

“That’s quite uh… some sibling rivalry you’ve got there.”

“They were just jealous because I was clearly the best,” Arthur sniffs, showing no remorse for his morbid childhood fantasies. “I was the youngest for a long time before Peter came. Alistair thought they can just order me to do their bidding because they’re older but no sir! Arthur Kirkland was not born to stoop, to scorn, and knuckle under.”

“Holy shit.” Alfred grabs Arthur’s arm and shakes it. “Did you just -- I can’t believe you -- The Scarlet Pimpernel?”

Arthur blinks, slowly smiling. “I didn’t expect you to catch that.”

“Well, I got three words for you, buddy: Musical. Theater. Nerd.”

“You’re not our usual type of nerd.”

“High School Musical changed a lot of lives, man.”

Arthur couldn’t help himself, an undignified snort escapes tailed by snickering laughter. He is quick to cover his mouth with his free hand, shoulders shaking with the effort to contain them.

Alfred is biting his lips, a blush high on the apples of his cheeks. He did that. He made Arthur laugh. The sun peeks through the clouds and everything is perfect.

Then a phone rings.

Arthur’s expression freezes. He blinks away the happy tears and straightens up. Patting his pockets, he pulls up his phone. “Sorry,” he mutters, suddenly all-business-like, looking at Alfred briefly. “I have to take this. It’s just going to be a moment.”

Alfred could only nod, watching as Arthur heads off to the side so as not to block the sidewalk. He picks up fragments of words -- a breach of contract, baseless allegations -- but they sound urgent if Arthur is being called in even on weekends. Arthur’s expression is serious, his eyes  stone cold.

Tense shoulders finally relax as Arthur ends the call. He makes his way back to Alfred, apologetic. “Sorry, that was urgent. I’ve been waiting for that call since last night and -- well, that’s no excuse.”

“Are they going to call again?” Alfred asks, keeping the accusation from his tone.

“No,” Arthur says with surety. “We’ve gone over what was needed and I’ve told them the rest of my weekend is blocked off. I trust them to do their work.”

A small smile curls at the corner of Alfred’s lips. “Do you want to make sure they won’t bother you?”

“That… would be preferable.”

“Give me your phone.”

Arthur hesitates for a second before handing it over. “What are you going to do?”

“Activate the Do Not Disturb mode.” Alfred demonstrates with a few swipes at the screen -- Arthur’s wallpaper is one of the pre-installed ones, how boring -- before he returns it promptly. “There. No more distractions.”

“So I won’t be receiving incoming calls now?”

“Calls _will_ be blocked, yes, and you won’t be alerted to new emails or anything else, too,” Alfred explains. “Just keep your phone locked.”

Arthur nods along, tucking it back inside his pocket. “Basically, no distractions.”

“Yeah.”

“That works for me.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course. Now where are we headed? Still got a lot of time before the show.”

Alfred grins. “Okay, let’s go....” He looks around, zeroing on where a group of people seem to be huddled around a street performer. “There!”

 

“You cool with us taking a video?”

“No problem.”

The pavement view pans up to show a young man on the sidewalk wearing a toothy grin and a tiny top hat perched at an angle on his head. His coat’s collar is upturned, giving a fanciful air. In his hand is a deck of playing cards, he spreads them out all face down before the camera.

“Please pick your card,” the brunet says in a thickly-accented voice.

Alfred whisks the video towards Arthur. “Go on, Artie.”

Arthur gives him a wary look but reaches for one nonetheless. There’s a small crowd surrounding them, similarly enthralled by the street performer.

“You may show it to the camera.”

It’s the Queen of Spades. Arthur returns it to the deck face down and the magician starts his routine. Alfred keeps his camera on his hands as it shuffles, cuts, and reshuffles the cards.

“Is this your card?” The magician holds up a seven of hearts.

“Afraid not,” Arthur denies.

“Are you sure?

“Very sure.”

The magician shuffles the deck again, extending his arms and flipping the cards from one palm to another without a single one falling out of place. Off-camera, Alfred can be heard going “Wooow!” in amazement.

“Is this your card?”

“Wrong again,” Arthur says to the 10 of clubs.

“Dear me,” the magician laments. “Wherever could your card have gone?”

“I returned it to you.”

“Are you sure?” the man leans in a little too close for Alfred’s liking, the pearl earring on his left ear catching the late afternoon sunlight.

Arthur, however, does not back down. There’s even a coy little smile playing on his lips. “Quite.”

Alfred clears his throat.

The magician’s eyes turn to him, red eyes sparkling with mischief. (Surely, they’re just contacts, Alfred tells himself.) “I think I see your card now, Mister Arthur.” He steps towards Alfred, with an open palm. “May I?”

“May you what?” Alfred asks, adjusting the camera so it zooms out from just showing the lower half of the magician’s face and his shoulders. That pointed grin is starting to creep him out.

“I need your help,” he smiles.

“Okay... What do I do?”

“Would you mind checking this pocket, sir?” He taps the palm of his hand over Alfred’s chest.

Alfred blinks, feeling a tad disoriented. “I don’t have anything in there,” he says. He’d long stopped carrying items in breast pockets after one too many spilled ink accidents.

“I think you do,” the magician tells him. “Go on.”

“Whatever you say but there’s no--” Alfred pauses, fingertips touching upon a hard and thin edge. He pulls out a card. And it’s not just any card. “No way…”

“What is it?” Arthur leans in for a look, the minute fluttering of his eyelashes caught on camera as he recognizes it. He lifts his gaze towards Alfred, eyes gleaming with mirth.

Alfred’s breath catches.

“How did you get this?” Arthur is all amusement and hushed whispers.

“I-I don’t know.” Alfred can only smile through his confusion.

“The Queen of Spades,” the accented voice calls, drawing their attention. “Has a fervent wish to be treasured. So she likes being tucked close to the heart, you understand?”

No, Alfred does not understand but for some reason he finds himself blushing. “C-Cool trick, man.” He ends the recording, at the same time handing back the card.

“This is no trick, it’s magic.” He shuffles the Queen with the rest of the deck. “I also dabble in fortune telling. Would you care to try?”

“Er, no thank you.” Alfred backing off with Arthur right beside him.

The crowd presses in, taking in their vacated space.

“Ve~ I wanna try,” a crinkly-eyed brunette is saying. “It looks fun, right, Ludi?”

The statuesque blonde beside her gives a curt nod.

“Very well,” the magician acquiesces, doing a little bow.

Walking away, Alfred couldn’t help but look back. The magician winks at him.

* * *

It’s a long walk back to World Stars as the sun sets. Arthur tells him the theater where they’ll be watching Annie is housed in a newly constructed building just a block away from World Stars, a mid-rise structure boasting various recreational areas. The Axis, as it is named, has a bowling alley and an ice rink, four cinemas, and, of course, the theater. Plenty of food places, too, so they agree to have a pre-show dinner there.

But first, to refresh.

Arthur showers while Alfred kicks back on the living room couch, digesting the butterflies in his stomach. After five minutes of just breathing deeply (no, he was _not_ sighing like a lovestruck idiot… okay, maybe a little… or a lot), Alfred checks his phone for messages. He replies to a couple -- Thaksin telling him the tests were successful, a streaming invite from Kiku that he’d missed two hours ago -- before switching to his Snapchat.

Matthew’s is the first one he loads up. There’s a photo of vanilla ice cream in a bulbous glass bowl, a thin stream of coffee poured over it in swirls.

He must be over at Carlos’, Alfred figures. Carlos is a professor at the Biology department who got Matthew into the TA program. Alfred mostly knows him as the ice-cream-guy-who-hates-his guts for some reason. Shame, really, because that _affogato_ looks delicious.

Peter’s Snap comes up next. It’s the dorm rec room showing about a dozen people all readying to watch some movie on the big TV. Alfred spots Yolie and Morgan, Seb who looks like he’s still half-sick, and Raivis among others.

He goes through a couple more until he hears his name called.

“Alfred?” Arthur is peeking from the bedroom. “The shower is free.”

Alfred thinks his soul just got freed from his body, too, right then. Arthur’s hair is a shade darker, carelessly raked back so his bushy eyebrows are even more prominent, a beige bathrobe with AK embroidered on the chest wrapped around his lean body. He looks so… homey. Alfred tears his eyes away before he’s called out on his staring. “Thanks, Art. I’ll make this quick.” is Alfred’s excuse as he briskly walks past the older man. Despite his rush, he still gets a whiff of Arthur’s scent -- cool and fresh and with a faint smell of roses -- and all he could do is bite his tongue as he grabs his things and locks himself in the bathroom. Which... smells even more strongly of Arthur, considering he just came out of it.

“Fuuuuuuck,” Alfred hisses, grip tight around his toiletry bag. Every little breath is infused with the heady musk of another man, of Arthur. His eyes stray towards the shower, it’s glass walls bejeweled with water droplets. Arthur was in there just now… water cascading down his naked body… his hands running sweet-smelling soap over every inch… _Fuck._ Alfred could’ve been right there with him. His hands instead of Arthur’s, slick with lather as they map out foreign territory. Arthur’s gaze on him, heated. Steam fogging up the glass. _Damn it._

Alfred slaps his own cheek. This is not the time or place to get himself worked up. Liking Arthur is one thing but entertaining sexual fantasies of him (them!) is an entirely different ball game. “Get a fucking grip,” he scolds himself, glaring at his pants where a certain body part has started to gain interest. He is _so_ not going to jerk off in here. No way.

Pushing himself off the door, he sets his bag on the sink and sees Arthur’s things neatly arranged. Alfred grins and fixes his own toiletries to match. Then he blushes on realizing how couple-y it looks.

Time for that cold shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We got more cameos/mentions:  
> Alistair - Scotland  
> Carlos Machado - Cuba  
> Ludi and Felicia - GerIta  
> Also yes the magician was Romania :)
> 
> Mood music: [Weekend - Neon Trees](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8E5EtDlE2gg)
> 
> My favorite line this chapter was -- _Liking Arthur is one thing but entertaining sexual fantasies of him (them!) is an entirely different ball game._ \-- because ‘ball games’ hehe.  
>  what’s yours? :)


	7. Chapter 7

Easy banter fills the already minimal gap between them as they walk to the Axis where the theater is housed. Unlike World Stars and it’s exclusive selection of dining establishments, the Axis has a more accessible ambiance with a vast variety of food options to boot. There’s fast food and buffet, fusion restaurants and DIY pizza parlors. A fountain takes up the central plaza, embedded with multi-colored lights that give the clear water a dazzling effect. Alfred has them take a commemorative photo in front of the bronze globe sculpture that is the fountain’s centerpiece before heading in. They’ve got a bit over an hour before the show so they limit their choices to food places close to the theater.

Alfred looks up at the twin golden arches, then looks down at Arthur. “You want to eat here?”

“The theater is just up that escalator,” Arthur says, sounding defensive. Indeed, there are posters and signages promoting the show around them. “But if you want something else we could go around and see--”

“McDonald’s is fine!” Alfred waves his hand in front of him as if to ward off further argument. “It’s just… We’ve already eaten pretty heavy stuff today and McD’s doesn’t skimp on calories, so… uh…” Arthur’s brows are meeting in the middle. Alfred bites the inside of his cheek, cutting off that thought. “Ahaha! You know what, I can just burn them all off in football practice. Let's go!” He marches in, greeting the doorman with a bright smile before going straight to the end of the queue.

Arthur blinks at being left behind. He heads inside, curious about Alfred’s attitude towards fast food. After a brief discussion on what they’re getting, he feels more in his element again. “Find us a seat while I get the food, would you?” he asks Alfred, one hand hooked into the pocket that has his wallet.

Instead of readily agreeing, however, Alfred seems to take root on his spot. “But… I want to buy you dinner.”

Arthur stares for a long second, processing the words. It almost sounds like… but that can’t be right… He’s probably just reading too much into it. He settles for an appeasing smile. “I-I’ll take care of it.”

“But I _want_ to,” he insists. “C’mon, I can afford this much.”

The moment he said it, Alfred knew he shouldn’t have done so. Like some unspoken rule, it has always been Arthur who paid whenever they went out. Alfred is fine with that. Or he _was_. Ever since he realized the depth of his feelings, he finds that he has become increasingly conscious of Arthur’s spending. For him, in particular. It’s probably not a big deal for Arthur (with his six-figure salary) but Alfred doesn’t want to just keep taking and taking without giving back. He has savings from his allowance, he’s brought twice as much cash as he usually carries for this trip, so he could at least buy him his damn burger.

“Alfred.” Arthur’s voice is cautious, gentle, somehow knowing exactly where those words came from. He waits for Alfred to meet his gaze. “I appreciate your intentions, however, as you are my guest I fully intend to shoulder all the expenses. So if you _please_.”

_No, I won’t please._ Alfred isn’t going to back down but then someone clears their throat -- a lady in line behind them -- and he’s reminded that they’re in public. It’s no good to start a shouting match here. He and Arthur move up, a faint tension stirring the air between them. Arthur is watching him calmly, gauging his moves so as to ready his own rebuttal. Peter always complained about Arthur’s controlling streak and now Alfred finally sympathizes with him. To think that they’re already having their second fight of the day -- Alfred can’t remember if they’ve ever been this argumentative before -- it makes him nervous. Alfred hates this feeling.

_Think of this as a lesson_ , says a sensible voice in his head. It sort of reminds him of Matthew. _You won’t always get your way, Alfred. Besides, didn’t you already win your first row?_

_Compromise_ , a rather Kiku-sounding voice reminds him.

Taking a deep breath, Alfred concedes. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’ll go find us some seats.”

The return of Arthur’s smile, his approval, eases some of his discomfort.

 

“And why are you staring?”

Alfred almost chokes on his soda at getting caught. He quickly swallows, grabbing a tissue to wipe at his mouth. “Nothing!” When Arthur’s disbelieving look doesn’t change, he caves. “Just… I thought you were all about fine dining.”

“I like fast food just fine.” The Briton sniffs, making Alfred snicker.

“I can see _that_.”

_That_ being the half-demolished Quarter Pounder with cheese in Arthur’s hand. How he manages to eat it so classily is beyond Alfred who has guacamole dripping from his burger to the placemat. _Splat_ . Some of it lands on the pile of fries between them. He deftly scoops it up, depositing fry and guac into his mouth. _Not bad._

“What's with you and watching calories then?” Arthur grabs a few fries of his own, shaking off the excess salt before eating them.

“Oh. Nothing. Just… being an athlete and all… It's no biggie, just have to make sure I'm not eating more fuel than I can use.”

“Dieting?”

Alfred picks up more fries, munching on them as if to prove a point. “Not _exactly_ , just… I eat a lot on a regular basis, already.” After a bite he adds, “Also, I prefer making my own food.”

“Ah. So you cook?”

Arthur sounds surprised and Alfred really wonders how they’ve known each other for months now without cooking having come up in conversation. Because Alfred cooks a _lot_. Then again, all they’ve ever done is go out to eat together and he hasn’t exactly invited Arthur to eat with them at the dorm. Is Arthur even allowed to dine there, for that matter? Cutting off his internal monologue, Alfred swallows another mouthful before speaking. “I do. I usually take care of lunch or dinner. That's like one of the rules I have with potential roommates. Switching who cooks for each other builds camaraderie and all that. Peter is sort of a special case.”

Because Peter does not have the slightest inclination to even learn how to cook. The look that passes between them heightens this shared thought.

Arthur lowers his burger solemnly. “I am very sorry about him.”

“Whaaat? Don't be!” Alfred isn’t sure if Arthur is humoring him. “It's okay that he usually gets us take out. Actually, I guess I should be sorry he makes you pay for our dinner when he forgets it.”

“Nonsense.” Arthur brushes him off fluidly, reaching for more fries. “It's better to eat when there's company around.” There’s a split second where his expression freezes, fingers twitching short of actually reaching their target. “Er…” He retracts his hand, going for a drink to cover it up but Alfred has already read through it.

Arthur eats alone. The very idea makes something churn in Alfred’s stomach. Green eyes evade him but all he wants is to look straight into them as he says, “Hey, Arthur.”

He’s not even drinking but the rim of the glass is poised at his lips. Arthur gulps.

“Let me cook for you.”

Thick brows furrow a little deeper, his attention finally locking on Alfred. “Why?”

Alfred keeps his expression warm against that icy tone. “As a thank you.” He grins. “For taking me to see the musical and all the fun we've had this weekend.”

“We’re not even halfway through it,” Arthur mutters, cheeks dusted with a faint pink. “There’s no need to, Alfred. Honestly.”

“Please?” Alfred leans in, begging with his big blue eyes. He considers putting down his food so he can grab Arthur’s hands to get the full effect but it looks like he doesn’t have to. Arthur is squirming in his seat, unable to look away. Alfred is sure he’s going to give in any second but just to make sure… “You won’t let me pay for anything so you could at least let me have this.”

It’s an underhanded trick and Arthur certainly doesn’t appreciate being played. He frowns but it doesn’t stop the color from reaching the tips of his ears. “Oh, alright.”

Alfred’s grin lasts throughout the night.

* * *

 In the morning, he wakes disoriented.

The bed is too soft and he’s sweating under the covers. There’s a different smell in the air, pulling at his gut and… lower. He groans. Pushing off the suffocating blanket frees his hand, fingers scaling down his torso to take care of business when something grumbles from right beside him.

Alfred’s eyes snap open, finding a blurry green ceiling overhead. He can hear the slow rhythm of breaths coming from his right, feels the warmth of another body. His heart pounds, erratic, as he slowly moves his head to peek.

Arthur is sound asleep on the next pillow, his body turned towards Alfred, with the thick blanket covering up to his shoulders. The bags under his eyes and the lines on his face seem softer, faint freckles scattered over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His lips are slightly parted, letting out those sleepy grumbles, and Alfred _wants_.

His body reacts accordingly.

Much as he’d hate to move (Alfred has already decided that he _liked_ waking up to Arthur’s face), he knows that it would be best for Arthur _not_ to wake up and find him in his current predicament. So he slips out of bed, quiet as fox, and sneaks into the bathroom. Behind the locked door, Alfred bites his tongue and makes a quick work of it, no use pretending he isn’t thinking of the man still cocooned in the bed they’ve shared for a night. Everything had been innocent -- getting under the covers next to each other, recounting their favorite moments from the play as their eyelids droop low, yawning as sleep finally claims them -- but the direction his mind goes is far from it. He imagines himself still there, Arthur waking up beside him, kissing him good morning like couples do. Those sleepy kisses turn coy, Arthur’s lips forming a smirk against his as he discovers what woke Alfred up. He’d laugh, tease him and kiss him some more. Then he’d press close, slinging a leg over Alfred’s thigh and Alfred would _feel… oh… oh god… Arthur… Arthur! Arthur!_

The flush of the toilet is loud, wailing like a sacrifice to the sewer gods; Alfred double checks the perimeter to make sure everything is clean. Moving to the sink, he sprays cold water on his face to douse the shame that’s burning under his skin. So much for chastity. He checks if Arthur is awake before stepping out of the bathroom (he isn’t, thank god), before grabbing his glasses off the bedside table and making his way to the kitchen.

Arthur said he could cook for him and who doesn’t want to get breakfast in bed?

Walking through the suite on a quiet Sunday morning makes Alfred feel like he’s trespassing on sacred ground. As if the entire suite knows what he just did in the bathroom while thinking of its owner. Alfred banishes the silly thought as he looks around, toes curling inside the borrowed house slippers. Everything here is just so _Arthur_ , like, he could probably read the man’s history in his book collection (all of them thick and leatherbound) and it’s tempting. Tempting to scrutinize what’s before him so he could understand what exactly it is that drew him towards Arthur in the first place. The classy European upholstery? The empty frames on the wall bordered with rabbit carvings? He is gripped with a want to know the man beyond his persona, by his expressions and what he chooses to surround himself within his own personal castle. Because this place _is_ like a castle for modern nobility, a contemporary king. _A pirate king_ , he thinks amusedly, finding a ship in a bottle displayed on one of the topmost shelves.

They got in pretty late last night so Alfred didn’t have time to check the fridge’s contents but since Arthur said he lived here ‘occasionally’, he assumes the guy has food in there. Or at least raw ingredients. Peter said that Arthur bakes so he should have flour and baking powder somewhere; Alfred thinks of making pancakes.

The fridge seems to be running so he checks it first. There’s canned beer… bottled beer… foreign brews with names Alfred can’t pronounce. He lets the door creak shut, his enthusiasm dwindling. What is with all the alcohol? Alfred decides he’ll ask later, moving on to the cupboards. The first one he opens has plates and utensils. Good, but not exactly his priority. The next cupboard has a box labeled ‘TEA’, beside it is an elaborate tea set (gold-lipped and floral patterned). There’s also a kettle. Does this guy have nothing here but drinks? Alfred wonders. The last and final cupboard answers him with a lone jar of marmite. That’s it. Nothing else in the cupboard.

Alfred steps back, disbelieving. Beer, tea, and marmite. What the hell? Arthur can’t possibly be living on just those! Desperate, he gets on his knees and starts rifling through the lower cabinets. He’s got his head under the sink when he hears his name being called.

“Kitchen, Art!” he shouts back, extracting himself from the pipes and sitting down on the floor where Arthur finds him.

“What are you doing down there?” Arthur raises a brow. He’s in his robe again. Cute.

Alfred pouts. “I was going to make breakfast but you’ve got nothing in here! Not even an egg, Arthur!”

“Eheh.” Arthur adjusts his robe.

“And your fridge is full of beer,” Alfred accuses. “Are you a drunkard or something?”

“N-Now don’t jump to conclusions.” Arthur crosses his arms. “I told you I’m usually here for business meetings. Sometimes it’s necessary to get drinks with clients.”

“So you bring them up to your suite here?”

“Yes. And it’s purely business so get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Alright, alright.” Alfred pushes to his feet.

“Honestly.”

“Well, my plan of surprising you with breakfast has spectacularly failed. What now?”

“Surprise… breakfast?” Arthur blinks up at him now that Alfred has stood his full height.

“You promised to let me cook for you, remember?” At Arthur’s blank stare, Alfred sighs. “Don’t tell me you forgot already.”

“I-I didn’t!” Arthur protests. “I just didn’t think you’d want to do it so soon…”

“No time like the present! And I don’t want you pulling that forgetfulness crap on me.” Alfred sends him a Look. “I’m going to get groceries.”

“Alfred, wait --”

“There’s nothing here for me to cook with!”

“I already made breakfast reservations,” Arthur pointedly blocks his way. “And lunch, too.” He doesn’t move even as Alfred glares.

_Great. Juuust great._

“And…”

Alfred’s jaw ticks.

“This kitchen isn’t really suitable for cooking.”

He figured that out by himself already, no thanks to you.

“I’ve got a better-stocked pantry… at -- at my other place.” Arthur purses his lips, unable to look Alfred in the eyes so he settles with staring at the cowlick that’s stubbornly sticking up that blonde head of hair. “The one back in town, that is. My main flat.”

Alfred’s glare slides off his face. _Did he just…?_ “You want me to cook at your house?” he clarifies.

“Only if you wouldn’t mind my company for a little while longer.”

_I want to be with you forever_ , Alfred doesn’t say. His crushed hope rises like a phoenix from the ashes.

“I understand if you’d rather return to your dorm right away but--”

“No way,” Alfred interjects, surprising Arthur with the sudden return of his energetic self. He grabs Arthur’s hands before he can think twice about it. “Weekend of fun, remember? Can’t have it end before dinner!”

Arthur thinks his hands are being crushed, but more importantly -- “So… we’ll be getting dinner later, as well?”

“Hell. Yes.”

 

Following breakfast is a brief tour of World Star’s touted amenities. Arthur claims to never have used them much but he is free to bring companions along who might wish to use them in his stead. He gives Alfred a pointed look at this but the younger man just smiles, tells him he’d try them out when he gets his own club membership.

"I definitely want to live here when I graduate, I mean, this place has _everything_." Alfred pushes his glasses up his nose, turning away from the LED display panel he’s been watching as the elevator climbs back up to Arthur’s floor. Lunch was a light affair of Asian cuisine. It was delicious, par for the course, but all Alfred can think about is what he’s going to cook later.

Arthur opens his mouth to say something about a person’s net worth factoring in the application process but the eager look on Alfred’s face stops him. He settles for leaning against the back wall of the carriage as Alfred continues to gush. If there were other occupants of the elevator he would have told him to behave but as it is, Arthur is fine letting Alfred fill the box with chatter.

"I’d love to swim in that pool. Maybe try those other sports rooms. I still know a bit of tennis. Maybe basketball. I dunno about fencing, though. Who even does that anymore?"

"You'd be surprised," Arthur says, making Alfred stop and stare at him. Every time their eyes meet is like a breath of fresh air, like open skies and spring meadows. Arthur has been so used to staring down looks of envy, of ire, of plain disinterest that Alfred’s positive outlook leaves him stunned half the time. The other half, it buoys him, bringing out an enthusiasm Arthur didn’t know he still had just so he could go toe to toe with him.

"You?"

"No, but I do know someone who does."

“Oh.” Alfred’s disappointment is palpable but then he perks up, "Do _you_ play any sports?" He moves to stand beside Arthur, anticipating his reply.

That’s another thing about Alfred. Arthur finds that he’s genuinely interested. "Not particularly, no."

"Really? But you're so..." _Fine, Gorgeous, Perfect._ "...fit."

A bushy brow arches.

"I get pudgy off season," Alfred blurts out, a tinge of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. Arthur can almost see him mentally slapping himself for letting that slip. "I know I have to keep in shape to play but _man_ is exercising such a bore!"

"I think a little pudge would suit you, poppet." Arthur pokes Alfred's torso with much amusement.

"S-Shut up." Alfred shies from the touch, but there’s a smile at the corner of his lips. "Anyway. No sports for you? Not even like... Wine yoga? Forty-somethings seem to be into that these days."

Arthur bristles. "First of all, I'm barely into my thirties so jot that down."

Alfred laughs and, for a second, Arthur forgets his argument, blinded by the sheer joy of it. But then he remembers he’s being laughed at (even if it isn’t malicious in any way) and the hard-edged lawyer in him sustains their friendly bickering.

* * *

 Grocery shopping with Arthur is… an experience. He methodically goes through every aisle in chronological order whereas Alfred usually runs around to get the items at the top of his mind; his method often entails going back and forth a few times but Arthur is efficient. Alfred knows that already but he appreciates seeing it in a new context. He pushes their grocery cart after Arthur, who doesn’t spend too long in front of the displays, getting his usual brand of things and then moving on. Alfred lags behind sometimes, curious at a new brand, a new flavor, a product he hasn’t seen before; Arthur patiently waits for him at the end of the aisle.

Alfred stops by the seafood section to grab a pack of fish fillet, he sets them at the far end of the cart so as not to mix with the dry goods. Arthur looks… pleased.

“Are we having fish and chips?”

It’s like a shot to the heart -- the excited tone, the smile in his eyes, the warmth of his body close enough to touch. No one could be that excited about a home-cooked dinner, but Arthur just… is. Alfred wants to kiss him right then and there, surrounded by gutted sea critters with a briny smell in the air. It’s not the most romantic set up, leagues from it, but it’s all Alfred can think about. “Uh yeah,” he says dumbly.

“Brilliant! I think I saw some chips over there.” Arthur turns towards a row of refrigerators.

Alfred frowns. Those won’t do. “Actually, I was going to get potatoes.”

“You’re making them from scratch?”

“It’s not that hard,” Alfred scoffs, pushing their cart towards the produce section. “What else would you like?”

“Oh. Well, mushy peas are a staple.”

“Mushy _what-now_?”

“Peas.”

“I’ve never heard of those.”

“So… you can’t make them?” Arthur looks disappointed and Alfred can’t have that. Oh no.

“Of course I can!” He puffs out his chest. “I’m sure I can pull up a recipe online. And there’s always YouTube!”

“And what would you get from YouTube?”

“Cooking tutorials.” Alfred stops the cart beside a basket of potatoes. He picks two from the lot, examining them before handing them over to one of the grocery attendants to be weighed and priced. “That’s actually how I first got into the whole thing. Some guy from, _I think_ , New Zealand made these videos where it looked super fun so I decided to try it out.”

“I see.”

“Yeah, then Grandma got pissed because I was wasting food so she taught me how to do things properly. Her methods weren’t as fun but the food did turn out eatable.”

“Edible. Food is edible,” Arthur admonishes, though his stern frown is softer than usual.

“Yes, that.”

Satisfied, Arthur checks the cart’s contents. “Do we have everything? What about food for your dorm? We can get those now and I’ll drop you off with them later.”

“I… Peter and I can just do those later,” Alfred mumbles, knowing full well that there’s nothing left in their pantry. “Right now we’re getting those peas of yours.”

“Oh, no need for that.” Arthur waves a hand, dismissive. “I left a batch of them soaking in the freezer.”

“You did?”

“Yes, I... They need to soak at least eight hours before cooking.“ Arthur coughs. “I was planning to have them for dinner tomorrow but if you’re making fish and chips then those should be fine.” He nods to himself decidedly, meeting Alfred’s stare with a bit more confidence. “I have our old family recipe, too, if that would help.”

“You’d let me?” Alfred asks, needing to pinch himself to be sure this is all happening.

“I’ve tried it myself to… varying… degrees of success,” Arthur admits. “I have faith in your cooking skills.”

“You haven’t even tried it yet,” Alfred blushes.

“Then you just have to impress me, don’t you?”

Blue eyes gleam beneath wire-framed glasses. “You bet I will!”

“Great. Now let’s get the rest of those groceries for you.”

Alfred follows him with a wide grin, pulling up his phone and browsing through meal plans he’d set weeks before to guide them. By the time they reach the counter, the shopping cart is more than half-full. Alfred carries most of it back to Arthur’s car, claiming it as exercise when he leaves just the pack of tissue rolls for the older man to carry.

There’s minimal traffic on the streets as evening descends, the last golden glow of the setting sun illuminates the high-end condominium where Arthur resides. The doorman greets him with a “Good evening, Atty. Kirkland.”, steel gray eyes raking down Alfred (they widen slightly at seeing the bags in his hands) before nodding “Sir.”

“Evening, Rob,” Arthur greets back. ”Still filling in for Nicky?”

“Yes, sir. His wife is still recovering.”

“Did they get our gift basket?”

“They did. He asked me to extend his thanks to you.”

Arthur accepts it with a nod. The elevator dings and Rob holds the doors open for them. Pressing the button for the 14th floor, Arthur moves to the back of the cabin as it begins its ascent.

“Nicky’s wife got bit by a stray cat they adopted,” Arthur shares without prompting. “It was a mangy old thing; I don’t know why they deigned to pick it off the streets. Turned out it had rabies.”

“Is she gonna be okay?” Alfred asks, worried for a woman he has never met before.

The elevator opens and a group of three walk in. Arthur lowers his voice in response.

“That’s what we’re hoping for.” They don’t talk much after that, as other residents join their carriage, engrossed in their own conversations. Alfred keeps his focus on making sure their bags won’t get crushed. Once they get off, Alfred takes a deep breath. He feels his heartbeat pick up its pace.

They’re alone again.

“This way.”

Alfred might be imagining it, but he thinks Arthur looks a little nervous.

This condominium has a more modern aesthetic: no side tables along the hall, only minimal and more importantly functional decor. Black doors with silver numbers line up on either side of the slim corridor. Arthur unlocks one of them, briefly locking eyes with Alfred (who turns up his grin despite the clawing feeling in his gut). He smiles back and straightens his shoulders, flipping on the light switch and entering. “In we go…”

Before his pounding heart can drive his entire body backwards, Alfred puts one foot forward and bravely steps in.

The air-conditioning unit starts humming overhead. Bright lights illuminate the expansive space, the neat furnishings and the expressly lived-in feel that it has compared to Arthur’s World Stars suite, but most of all Alfred is drawn to the expectant look on Arthur’s face.

“Whoa!” is the only word that comes to mind, but then his mouth continues with a “You…” despite Alfred not knowing what to say next. The word hangs in the air.

Arthur’s hands tighten slightly where he’s still holding the door open.

He looks small in his thick argyle sweater, set against a sitting room big enough to house a family of four but only one of the side-chairs appear to have gotten much use… it gets something stuck in Alfred’s throat. Arthur may have had business partners over at World Stars but here…

“You really love green don’t you?”

Arthur blinks.

Alfred’s smile falters, his body protesting against what his mind really wants to say but he fights it. “Did you pick out all these things yourself? Or did you get one of those interior decorators? Your place looks really nice.”

“T-Thank you,” Arthur manages to say at last. “Step inside, won’t you? So we can close the door.”

Alfred obliges. He hears the softest sigh behind him as the lock turns, then Arthur is ushering him straight to the kitchen where he can put the groceries down. He doesn’t even realize how tired his arms were until their load was lifted.

Arthur gets him a glass of water, telling him about a friend of his that he consulted for the upholstery. “Mathias brought in a ridiculous five-volume catalogue of Scandinavian furniture. As if I had the time to read through all of that on top of my work documents! I told him, I said, Mathias I just want to get this place livable. Here’s my budget, work out something classy -- none of those three-legged stools or spotlights over the bed. Oh, and make it green. He’s Danish, by the way, and no, Alfred, he is not a pastry.”

“I didn’t even _say_ anything,” Alfred protests but he’s laughing.

“I can read it in your face.” Arthur leans across the table to flick his forehead.

“Oh really?” Alfred puts his elbows on the table, leaning in as well. “Can you guess what I’m thinking now?”

Eyelids lower over Arthur’s green eyes, their focus dragging from one side of his face to the other, sweeping left and right until they focus on his lips. Alfred feels extremely conscious of the blemishes on his face in that moment, utterly sure that whiteheads have broken out, that his lips are horribly chapped, that his glasses are tucked messily over his ears, that he looks completely undesirable and Arthur is going to dump water on his face any moment now but what Arthur does is so much more dangerous.

Arthur leans forward, thick brows arching in the slightest, a breath of a question that makes Alfred’s heart stop. “What?”

_I want to pull you over to that damn Scandinavian sofa and hug the hell out of you. I want to curl up all around you until our shape is molded into the cushions. And if you ever want to wear that damn sorry look again, I want your face right up against mine so I can kiss it away. I want --_

“You have to give me a grand tour, of course!”

Arthur settles back on his seat, something like excitement flickering in his eyes. “I suppose. But first we need to sort out these groceries.”

They set aside the dinner ingredients first, placing them on the work table to be dealt with later. Arthur then separates his items from Alfred’s, storing them accordingly. It still leaves Alfred with four bags of groceries to take home. Arthur starts his tour in the kitchen, leading them back to the sitting room where his study is also located, right behind a partition that Alfred initially assumed to be just another wall. Inside, it’s lined top to bottom with shelves of books and documents, what free space there is house framed accolades from important-sounding institutions. (He recognizes W University’s logo in a few.)  A glass-topped desk at the far back carries a slim computer and an open journal, behind it is a leather swivel chair.

Alfred whistles in appreciation, reaching to touch a framed certificate but Arthur grabs him by arm and steers him back out before he gets too nosy.

“I’m not _nosy_ \-- Oh, hey, what’s behind this curtain?”

“What do you think?” Arthur snarks but doesn’t stop him from yanking it open.

“Whoaa! You can see the whole town from here!” Alfred gasps in awe of the sparkles and shadows of the local nightlife. “And that’s the football field over there!” He points to a far-off plot, where stadium lights show off the white grids over green grass. He squints, imagining that the ant-like specs he could see are his teammates still practicing.

“Does, er, your coach know that you took the weekend off?” Arthur deigns to ask.

“Of course, he does,” Alfred turns back to face him, the city lights a halo around him. “Told him something important came up this weekend and I can’t miss it. Coach Ox is strict but he’s usually understanding.”

“That’s… that’s good, then.” Arthur steps away from the windows. “Shall we continue?”

“Alright!”

“Down that hall is the common bathroom, and the master bedroom is over here.” Arthur opens the door to show it off but they don’t venture in. Alfred sort of wants to but he understands that being let in here in the first place is already a great show of Arthur’s trust, no need to start invading his privacy.

“What about that other door?” Of course, Alfred never did have the strongest control over his curiosity. Said other door is right across the master bedroom, looking plain as anything it could have been a hallway closet.

“Oh, that… It’s a second bedroom.”

Alfred stares. “Do you… live with someone?”

“No. Actually, I had it prepared for Peter.” Arthur puts a hand on the door, a small frown tucked in the corner of his mouth. “When he said he was coming over to study at W University, I thought he’d prefer to stay with me for convenience’s sake.” He sighs, cradling one arm with the other and holding them close to himself. “Turns out I was wrong.” His gaze lingers for a second then he starts walking away. “No matter. I’ve been meaning to convert it to a home office, you know. Just haven't got the time to work it out.”

“Running out of space for your awards in that other room, eh?” Alfred jests, wanting to bring Arthur out of the slump he accidentally fell in.

“Something like that.”

“How about I get started on dinner?”

Finally, Arthur smiles. “That would be lovely.”

The recipe Arthur procures is easy enough to follow. Delicious smells fill the kitchen together with the sizzling of the pans and whirring blender. The peas Arthur left soaking in his fridge are turning out perfectly mushy with a little butter and cream.

“Taste this.”

A spoon appears at his shoulder, laden with green-colored goop. Alfred opens his mouth as instructed. “Mmm. Itsch dewischious, Art!” For that he gets a slap on the shoulder.

“Don't talk with your mouth full!” Arthur's brows are furrowed but his eyes are bright from the compliment.

Alfred swallows. “It's true though! Peter told me you burn everything you cook but those peas are great!” (Granted, blending peas didn't exactly entail using fire but Alfred thinks it should still count.)

“He _said_ that?!”

“Well, now you've proven him wrong.”

“Damn right I did.”

Seeing the smug satisfaction on Arthur’s face makes Alfred glad he let the man take care of the mushy peas. He wanted to prepare their food all by himself, to take Arthur to a park for a picnic, have candle lights and roses. This… is none of those things, but he has to admit that this is even better.

The square table is set for two, a steaming plate of fish and chips at the center with a bowl of mushy peas on the side. Arthur brings out two cans of beer and Alfred is not about to refuse. A radio plays from its perch on the island counter, lively music that's ultimately drowned out by their livelier conversation.

Alfred talks more about cooking with his Grandma, how he cooked and ate too much he went overweight during middle school. Then his Grandpa enrolled him in a sports clinic to work off the extra pounds and Matthew joined him (not wanting to be left alone and it turned out joining a sports team helped his older brother socialize better). Arthur willingly shares more of his misadventures with food once alcohol has loosened his tongue. He recalls washing down his burnt scones with cream-infused tea because it's bad manners to waste food. And how he has allegedly mastered beer-and-soup pairing for when he gets sick. Alfred’s cheeks hurt from smiling, his heart so light it has practically crossed into a different plane of existence. Somewhere along the way they've managed to eat everything and Arthur insists on doing the dishes. With surprising strength, he pushes Alfred towards the couch, tells him to watch TV or something.

“I don't want to see even a hair of yours in that kitchen until I'm done, understood?”

Alfred would protest but Arthur is keeping him down with a hand atop his head and what he _really_ wants to do is just nuzzle against that palm. Maybe drag Arthur down on the couch with him and cuddle, leave the dishes for later.

Arthur nods, taking his contemplative silence as agreement. He pats Alfred’s head once more (“There's a good lad.”) and leaves unaware of how close Alfred is to wringing out a moan at his actions.

Alfred sinks into the cushions, feeling hot under the collar. Too much. This is all just… too much. He _wants_ Arthur and it’s not just his hormones or the alcohol talking. Being this close to him, getting to know all these sides of him, waking up and sharing meals and just listening to his voice -- it's going to drive Alfred crazy if he doesn't _tell_ him soon.

Tell him what? Everything. Tell him how everything he does gets Alfred’s heart thundering. How much he wants to kiss him. To see him smile in any measure; smug or soft or wry, or even those cute pouty frowns he does when he doesn't get his way. Tell him how Alfred's arms feel so useless and empty without him. How much he wants to just _hold_ him for a minute… Or five… Or more.

Alfred sighs, wanting nothing more than to go see Arthur right now but knowing he’d be rebuffed. Arthur is just ornery like that but that's fine! He’s been spoiled of Arthur’s attention this entire weekend already! …But it’s still not enough. It feels like he’s running out of time, every clink of a dish coming from the kitchen is a countdown to when this magical moment is going to end.

He squints against the city lights showcased by the wide windows. They're sparkling… distracting. Hundreds of people in the streets below and he wants to tell them all, to shout _Arthur Kirkland is fucking amazing! He’s…_

“Oh dear, did I get you drunk?”

Alfred looks up and Arthur is there, if a bit bleary. He doesn't know how long he’s been laying down, his mind going _Arthur Arthur Arthur._ He entertains the idea that he has somehow telepathically summoned the older man to him. “’M not drunk.” He sits up to prove it. They had, like, two beers each and Alfred is no lightweight. “Just… really full.”

“You get sleepy when full.” Arthur brushes aside Alfred's bangs, fondness underlining his observation.

“Your hand is cold,” Alfred says, leaning into it regardless.

“Are you sure you're alright?” Arthur sits beside him, retracting his hand and pinning Alfred in place with just his stare.

“I am,” Alfred assures him, the fog in his mind lifting as he takes in Arthur's appearance -- argyle sweater gone, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “D-Did you enjoy dinner?”

“Very much. Those dishes were already spotless even before I went about cleaning them.” Arthur smiles, shifting closer to put a hand on Alfred’s knee. “We should do this again…”

Alfred breathes in and stills, caught in that smile, that voice, those eyes. That. _Hand_.

“Of course, I should be the one to cook next time! Biscuits and scones are my specialty, but if we're talking about a proper meal…” Arthur licks his lips, uncertainty flashing over his features. “Erm, I can make decent curry? O-Or pie? It's been a while since I made one but I still have my mum’s recipe. It was given to her by her mother – my grandmother – who got it from _her_ mother who – well, you get the idea.” He gives a little laugh, squeezing Alfred’s knee in a nervous spasm. “Since she didn’t have daughters, though, mum just passed it on to _me_ . And I really want you to try – Actually, no. Forget that. I’ve talked about myself by a gratuitous amount already. This is embarrassing.” Arthur looks away all flustered. His gaze returns to Alfred after a moment, apologetic and hopeful. “What would _you_ like? …Alfred? Are you listening?”

Truthfully, Alfred had zoned out right after Arthur said he wants a repeat, sitting mesmerized by this Arthur in front of him. This Arthur who talks animatedly, whose cheeks are tinged pink, holding him captive under the melodic lilt of his mellow voice. This Arthur who’s moving closer, his warmth and his smell surrounding Alfred, drawing him in.

“Alfred?”

Arthur’s lips are soft, softer than he's ever dared to imagine. Wet. He tastes like beer and smells like lemons (his dishwashing soap?). Alfred melts into him but Arthur pushes back, lips pressing insistently. Like a match being struck, heat sparks from every point of contact between them… and then it all goes cold.

“ _Alfred…!”_

The cushions catch him, keeping their bodies close despite the hand that has pushed him away. It burns like a brand on his chest, which would explain why the entire area feels so hot. Alfred… really likes it when Arthur says his name with that accent of his. He even sounded breathless just now which only frazzles what functioning nerves Alfred still has left. And with those big bright eyes boring into him… It’s no wonder Alfred’s brain-to-mouth filter has practically dissolved.

“I… have the biggest heartboner for you right now.”

Sputtering noises are replaced with utter silence.

Arthur’s massive brows look like they’re attempting The Worm as his face steadily reddens. “You have a… a _what_?” he squeaks. Beneath his palm is a thundering beat.

He. Is. Just. So. Darn. Cute. Alfred soaks up the rush of feeling, thinking how _perfect_ everything is until his brain finally catches up to what his own stupid mouth just said and – “Oh my fucking god.”

The expletive pulls Arthur's lips into a frown.

Arthur isn't being _cute_ , he’s _appalled_. He's looking at Alfred like he’d just grown horns out of his head.

Happy feelings dissipate as Alfred springs to his feet, shame burning through his veins. “T-That wasn’t -- I meant, um… I didn’t -- oh god…” With this sudden abundance of space between them, he can see Arthur’s face more clearly: blotchy red cheeks bringing out his green, green eyes that are darting everywhere except below Alfred’s torso. He's biting his bottom lip.

Alfred feels his own tingle with a ghost sensation. Oh shit. Did they…? Did he???

Arthur finds Alfred staring at his mouth and promptly covers half his face with his hand.

_Confirmed_.

“I AM _SO_ SORRY!” Alfred wails, backing away. “I’M SORRY! I – Shit.” The back of his calf catches the corner of the coffee table, almost making him lose his balance. Alfred manages to stay on his feet because the last thing he needs is to add property damage to his crime of violating Arthur’s person. He looks around, wary of other breakable furniture, and finds his duffle bag across the room. The front door just behind it.

“I’m _sorry_ , Arthur,” he says one more time. “I-I should go!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three days. It took me three flipping days to get them on that damn couch and off it.  
> I was like… Do they kiss? Alfred def wants to… But Arthur's gonna push him away and then what?? Then what?? Then it came unto me -- **_heartboner_**  
>  Imagine Arthur all flustered and googling [the word](https://slangdefine.org/h/heart-boner-2b08.html) after Alfred storms out.
> 
> Please let me know how you find this silly conflict~ OTL
> 
>    
> ALSO -- the next chapter is going to be delayed because I'll be preparing for Hetalia Day PH :D I'm super excited because (again) I've been out of touch with this fandom for something like 8 years and I'm hella nervous about meeting up with the local community. I'm thinking of submitting fanart for their gallery so >/////////<
> 
> In the meantime, you can reach me via [tumblr](http://hopaiskalos.tumblr.com)~ Ta~


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more google-fu'd dialogue just because french is a beautiful language  
> so just _hover over the text like so_

Dinnerware is set aside to make space for a pencil case, highlighters, and sheets of paper that’s sorted into two piles. A red pen flies over the page, its tip not touching the surface to avoid leaving any unwanted marks but every now and then, notations are made and words get crossed out or encircled. The quiet ritual continues until the end of the page. The table’s occupant then picks up the finished sheet and puts it face-down on top of the right-hand pile, hand gliding over to the left stack to get a new one; he grins on finding it’s the last one. Before he could bring it closer, though, he notices something across the way.

Matthew looks up but his glasses have slid down his nose. He pushes them up and the view comes into focus.

Sitting alone at the next table over, Francis raises his hand in a wave.

“Oh. It’s you.” He catches his offish tone a little too late and blushes. “I-I mean, hi! Uh… Francis, right?”

“Oui.” Francis gives a dazzling smile, enunciated by the decorative lightbulbs hanging from the restaurant ceiling. “You’re looking rather busy on a Sunday night.”

“Just TA stuff,” Matthew shrugs. Noticing the empty table setting in front of Francis, he adds. “Are you getting dinner? You can sit with me if you want, I’ll just…” He proceeds to gather his papers, looking around for an empty space to put them.

“Actually.” A gentle touch closes around Matthew’s wrist, guiding his hand down to return the sheets to where they’d been initially placed on top of the table. Francis pulls up the empty chair and sits, still smiling. “I just finished dinner myself. I did notice you sitting over here but you looked occupied so I…” The implication that he’d been watching the younger man registers and Francis has the decency to look ashamed about it. “I didn’t want to disturb your work.”

“Thanks for being considerate,” Matthew says good-naturedly, apparently taking no offence. “I like doing my work here since it’s quiet, I…  haven’t seen you around here before, though.”

“Really? I’m a rather frequent customer. Maybe we have just been missing each other?”

“Maybe so.”

Francis holds Matthew’s gaze a few seconds longer before speaking. “I know a better place if you want peace and quiet. It serves free coffee refills and the most delicious macarons. Outside of my kitchen, of course.”

“Are you suggesting we get dessert?”

“Only under the assumption that you had dinner before losing yourself in work,” Francis sounds just a tad reproachful. “It would be a huge disrespect to prioritize work over the delights of food. In such a fine establishment, no?”

That sounds like something Alfred would say, Matthew thinks. It’s been hours since he last heard from his brother; the guy hadn’t even replied to his Snap which is super weird. He assumes Alfred just got all swept up with Arthur and their weekend date. Lucky bastard. Going on dates while Matthew sits here laboring over research. Well, not for long. “Don’t worry, I already ate,” Matthew assures him. “And I’d love to get macarons and coffee. Would you mind waiting for like five minutes? I’m on the last page and after that we can go.”

Francis waves a hand graciously. “Go ahead.” He sits back and pulls up his phone, busying himself, too, as to not make Matthew worry of making him wait.

Matthew appreciates the gesture. He works on the last page a little more quickly than before without compromising his attention to detail. It’s mostly just the conclusion, anyway, reiterating the points stated in the previous paragraphs. Upon finishing, he calls for his bill and stashes his papers away, stuffing them into an envelope to avoid creases. Matthew pays and hoists his bag. Francis is already up and he opens the door for the younger man as they exit.

“It’s a bit of a walk,” Francis tells him. “Just after the brick building over there.”

“I don’t mind.” Matthew zips up his jacket in preparation. He’s not especially susceptible to the cold but it does get pretty windy come nighttime.

Francis leads the way and the conversation. “How are you? You must be busy to still be doing papers on a Sunday night.”

“Well… midterms went fine, my TA work actually adds some credit so I’m not worried about it.” Matthew falls in step with him. “I guess it’s a load off your shoulders, too, eh? Being done with midterms.”

“It gives me a measure on how the rest of the semester will go, yes.” They stop before a crosswalk, the red numbers counting down from 32. “If the class average is low, I’ll have to review the points they missed and adjust the lesson plan accordingly. Thankfully, this year’s batch is plenty capable save for a few cases.”

“Sorry for asking, but I don’t recall what you teach?”

“Philosophy, dear. I pitch in at the European languages division sometimes. I am _also_ an alumnus of the College of Law and its associated debate team so the current Varsity consults with me. They asked me to be their official faculty adviser, you know.”

Matthew recognizes the slight brag that comes with Francis’ lofty words but that only makes him more fascinating in his book. “Did you take them up on that offer?”

“I’m considering it. It really depends on what my schedule will be next semester.” They cross the street once the sign turns green. “What about you, Matthew? Which graduate program are you under?”

“Uh, none? I'm still an undergrad,” Matthew corrects, ducking his head. “I'm taking up conservation with the Bio department.”

“And you're doing TA work?” One of Francis’ brows arch up, impressed. “You must be a stellar student.”

“I try. Need to keep my grades up to keep my scholarship. I’ll be graduating next semester, though, and I’m thinking of getting my Masters right after.”

“Normally, I’d discourage that. Going for a Masters straight out of University seems rash. Get out and experience the world, I say!” Francis eyes him meaningfully. “But if that’s your plan, I'm sure you won't have any problems. You come across as very smart to me.”

“If we're talking about biology, sure.”

Francis looks like he wants to say something but a loud buzzing noise comes between them. Matthew yelps, whole body twitching at the sudden shock.

“Matthew?” Francis’ hands hover, unsure if it would be polite to grab him.

“Phone,” is all Matthew says, getting his limbs in order. He pulls out the vibrating device from his jacket, Alfred’s details flashing on the screen. “H-hey--” Matthew doesn't even finish his greeting when Alfred starts wailing.

“I FUCKED UP, MATTIE. OH MY GOD I CAN’T BELIEVE I -- I’M SUCH AN IDIOT. I’M A TOTAL IDIOT. EVERYTHING WAS GOING SO PERFECTLY -- HE WAS SO PERFECT -- BUT I JUST HAD TO FUCK IT UP. LET ME DIEEE!”

“Whoa, slow down!” Matthew covers the mouthpiece in an attempt to muffle his brother’s screaming. Francis is staring and this is really getting embarrassing. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“WHO CARES ABOUT ME? I’M A FUCKING IDIOT! GRADE- A IDIOT ALFRED FUCKING JONES--”

“Will you stop shouting?!” Matthew grits out, sorely tempted to just cut off the call but protective instincts over his brother stall his hand. “Tell me what happened. Slowly.”

Alfred lets out an intelligible groan, making Matthew roll his eyes. On finding Francis, his expression turns ashamed. ‘ _I’m sorry_ ,’ he mouths and Francis nods, sympathetic.

Seeing as Alfred is being irrational Matthew changes tactics. “Not helpful, Al.” More blubbering noises come from the other end. Despite his annoyance, Matthew is starting to get genuinely concerned. “How about this, just answer yes or no to my questions. Are you hurt? Like physically hurt and unable to move?”

“Nfnggphfg… _no_.”

“Are you still out of town?”

“No.”

“Dorm?”

“No!”

Matthew sucks in a breath before asking, “Do you want me to come get you wherever you are?”

It takes a full second before Alfred answers with another “No.”

“Okay, do you want to just talk?”

“ _Yes._ Oh my god I have so much to -- you need to hear this in person. I'm on my way to your dorm.”

“You're _what_?” Matthew turns his back to Francis, hunching his shoulders as to keep the conversation private. “I'm not at my dorm, Al.”

“What? Why not?”

“I'm grabbing coffee with a friend is why.”

“ _Awwwhhhnnngghrrrruuuggnkkkkhh_.”

“Stop _whining_ . _Jesus_.” Matthew groans, his own patience stretched thin. Putting a hand to his temple, he kneads away the oncoming migraine. “How far away are you? Do you need me to come back to my dorm to meet you?” He hears the roar of traffic and snippets of conversations. Alfred has gone eerily quiet. Opening his eyes, Matthew lowers the hand from his temple. “Al, are you still there?” A car honks, too close too loud, and Matthew jumps in his skin. Worry overpowers him. “Okay, okay. I’ll be at my dorm in twenty minutes.”

“Matthew, wait!” Alfred’s voice comes back and unbelievable relief washes all over Matthew.

“What is it?”

“I…” Alfred gulps audibly. “You don't have to.”

“ _What_?” Matthew cannot believe what he's hearing. “I can make it there in ten if I catch a cab.”

“No nononono! You - You stay where you are!”

“ _Alfred!_ ”

“I-I’m serious!” A sniffle. “You go get that coffee. I’ll be okay.”

“I can _hear_ you crying--”

“I am not!”

“You are and I'm seriously worried. You don't just dump all that on me and then tell me to forget  about it. Did he do something to you?”

“ _Ugh, no!_ Arthur would _never_ \-- _I_ made a mess of it, okay? I feel shitty but I'm not going to ruin your night over it, too. That would only make me feel worse. I’m the worst bro ever.”

“No, you're not.”

“I’m a mess who needs to sort my shit out.”

“Now _that_ I agree with,” Matthew retorts, feeling a smile pull at his lips at hearing Alfred chuckle.

“So you get your coffee and I’ll get my head straight in the meantime,” Alfred says, marginally calmer than when Matthew first picked up the call. “Can I hang at your dorm though? I don't think I can face Peter just yet.”

“Sure.”

“Okay.” Alfred heaves a sigh. “I'll see you later.”

“Just knock before entering, okay? Cy should be in and he'll open the door for you.” Matthew instructs. “I’ll let him know you're coming.”

“Thanks, Mattie. You're the best.”

“Yeah, yeah. Bye.” Ending the call, Matthew counts down to zero from ten and wills the headache away. Pulling up his inbox, he sends a quick message to Cyrus, telling his roommate to anticipate Alfred’s arrival. Cyrus’ affirmation is quick and Matthew is infinitely grateful for that. He grips his phone tightly to his chest, still torn about whether he can leave Alfred alone, after all.

“I understand if you need to go.”

Matthew whips around, having forgotten that he had company. Guilt gnaws at his insides. “Francis, I am _so_ sorry.” He walks up to him, suddenly feeling much smaller. “I -- my brother called and he’s in a bit of trouble.”

“I’m parked closeby, I can take you to him.” Francis reaches into his pocket, presumably where he keeps his keys.

“What? No nononono!” Matthew puts his hands up to stop him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“What about your brother?” Francis looks at him sternly. “It sounded urgent. Dessert can wait.”

“Alfred is fine.” Matthew tries his best to be convincing. “He just gets totally dramatic when he’s panicking. Blows things out of proportion is what he does but he’s alright now. I talked him down.” When Francis only stares, he adds, “We’re going to talk later but first he needs to take time and sort himself out. Trust me, I’ve been dealing with this for as long as I can remember.”

Finally, Francis takes his hand out of his pocket. “And you? Are _you_ alright?”

“I’m… not fine,” Matthew admits. “I think I’m going to need that coffee for whatever it is I’m about to hear later.”

“Very well.” Francis’ demeanor softens. “I’ll make sure you get the best treatment in the house.”

They continue their walk despite the shattered ambience. Matthew pockets his phone once more and hopes for the best. He knows Alfred tends to exaggerate everything but maybe it really is the worst case scenario. Maybe he _did_ do something irreversible. Maybe -- ugh. He hates having to prolong their talk but he also knows that Alfred makes more sense once he’s out of panic mode. The last time Alfred went mental was when he thought Arthur was hitting on him, which was later confirmed to be (sort-of) true from what Matthew had seen of them. That, however, was just an hour or so of conversation over dinner. This time Alfred is coming from an entire weekend with the guy and who knows what could’ve happened.

“We’re here.”

Matthew looks up to find the coziest little café. With lace curtains on the windows and pastel-hued interiors, stepping inside is like becoming part of some sweet confection. It’s warm with a sugary smell infused in the air.

“Francis! You didn’t tell me you were coming!” A dark-haired man approaches them, smiling bright.

“Oh, well, it’s always nice to see me, isn’t it?” Francis greets him with a hug and a kiss on both cheeks.

“Most of the time,” the guy laughs, spotting Matthew makes him pull back. “And who’s this?”

Francis gladly introduces them. “Remi, this is Matthew. Matthew, Remi. An angel sent to bless the Earth with delectable desserts.”

“Oh, shut up.” Remi snorts. “Come on in and let’s get you to a table.” He grabs a menu on the way and seats the pair a little ways off from the rest of the customers. “This is your first time here, yes?” Remi asks when he hands Matthew a menu.

“It is. Francis told me the macarons are superb.” Matthew pushes his glasses up. “I’d like to try the best you’ve got.”

“That would be the Fleur Selection.” Remi points to it on the menu -- three pieces of pastel-colored macarons with floral flavors. “It goes well with our signature café au lait.”

“I’ll take both,” Matthew says with a smile.

“Good choice.” Remi returns his smile, approving. He turns to Francis. “And you, Francis?”

“Same café au lait and let’s see… Oh, vanilla. Set of three.”

“Vanilla?” Remi repeats, arching a brow.

“Yes,” Francis confirms, serenely. “Anything else you’d like to add, Matthew?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Alright, then. One Fleur selection, two café au laits, and three vanillas. I’ll be right back with your order.”

“Thanks, Remi.”

Francis keeps their conversation light, speaking in melodious French throughout the meal. He talks about growing up in Paris, surrounded by all the beautiful artworks, about how he initially wanted to be an artist. He prefers oil to acrylic and could never have the patience for watercolor. His grandparents were dressmakers and his father grew the business into a brand, his mother was a runway model and his parents met at the catwalk.

Matthew takes a photo of the macarons when they arrive, going for a photogenic angle that he uploads on Instagram. He shows it to Francis who praises it and asks to see more. Matthew obliges, talking about the photography club he’s involved with as he shows him a couple -- food, flowers, animals, and interesting architecture that he’s caught around campus. Francis is quick to point out the lack of self-portraits. ‘Selfies,’ Matthew corrects him with a laugh, excusing himself as entirely unphotogenic to even bother with such things. Matthew got his nose broken once, an injury from a particularly intense hockey game, and he’s fairly sure it never set properly. It has always felt a little off ever since. Francis vehemently disagrees. The genial mood eases Matthew’s nerves, makes him forget about Alfred’s dilemma, at least for a while. They exchange numbers and follow each other on social networking apps.

Francis pulls up in front of a three-storey building where all the lights are still on, busybodies moving like a shadow play performance through the curtains. It’s been an hour and a half since Alfred’s call, he’d texted that he was already at Matthew’s dorm but emphasized that he didn’t need to rush back.

Matthew unclasps the seatbelt,  turning towards Francis with a grateful smile. " _Mille fois merci pour ce soir _.”

“ _J’étais heureux de le faire _ ,” Francis says, unlocking the car. ” _Tu peux m'appeler quand tu veux._ ”

“ _Oui. Bonne nuit. _ ”

“ _Je te dis merde. _ ”

Matthew steps out, waving goodbye. Francis waits until Matthew has entered the building before driving off. Once inside, Matthew goes straight to his room, expecting the worst but he’s surprised to find Alfred all quiet. He’s laying on his stomach on Matthew’s bed, a book propped open in front of him, fingers tracing what looks to be notations along the margin.

He looks up at the sound of the door opening, somber expression lifting in a smile when he sees his brother. “Mattie! You’re back!”

“Yeah, uh, where’s Cy?” Matthew asks, noticing the distinct absence of his roommate. He closes the door behind him, dropping his bag on his study desk; Alfred’s duffel bag is right underneath.

“Over at Herakles.” Alfred sits up and closes his book. “He said he’ll be sleeping over there since I’m… well… here.”

“You kicked out my roommate?” Matthew can’t be faulted for sounding incredulous.

“No, I didn’t! He went there on his own!”

“Why?”

“... I may or may not have been a little _teary_ \-- not crying! -- when I got here.”

“Ah…” Matthew deflates. “So he got scared off.”

“I made decent conversation with him, okay?” Alfred sniffs. “I was polite. We got talking about classes and found Herakles was a common friend.”

“Herakles Karpusi?”

“Yup. I asked  him for help in Philo and he promised to lend me some books but he kept forgetting to bring them to the animanga club room. Turns out he lives right here and Cyrus _graciously_ brought me over so --” Alfred waves the book he’s been reading as proof. “Tada!”

“And Cyrus just… stayed there?”

“Oh yeah. You should totally see Herakles’ room, you could fall asleep anywhere! The carpet is so soft and there’s bean bags in every corner! Man, that guy is a genius.”

“Right. Glad you’ve been productive. Here.” Matthew holds out a paper bag at him.

“What’s this?” Alfred takes it, shivering when he feels the cold. “Brrrrr!”

“Drink it before it melts,” Matthew advises, shedding some layers to adjust to the warmth of the room.

“Drink wha--” Alfred gasps. “A milkshake! Aww, thanks, Mattie!”

“I was going to get you coffee but y’know, it’s late and we can’t have you raving all night.”

“Mm-hm. And how was your coffee date?”

“Not a date, Al. Just coffee.”

Alfred smirks. “Mmm-hhmmmm.”

“Don’t _mm-hm_ me. It’s _your_ date we’re going to dissect here.” Matthew plops down on his bed, back hitting the mattress with his arms spread out, forcing Alfred to make space. “So start talking.”

The obnoxious slurping sounds fade as Alfred chews on the end of the straw, staring down the depths of the cup like it has the answer. For all the screaming he did earlier, Alfred is now disconcertingly mute, like he doesn’t even know where to start.

Matthew prepares himself for another one of his brother’s long-winded expositions. That’s usually the case when Alfred loses his head over something -- he’s unwilling to get to the point straightaway, derailing his story until he feels ultimately guilt-free on the matter.

“I kissed him,” Alfred says to his milkshake, looking like he’s confessed to murder. “I… I ruined everything, Mattie.”

Over the years, Matthew has heard every kind of confession from Alfred but he never expected to hear those two sentences uttered in the same breath. And with such devastation to boot. Alfred’s dating history almost always starts with kisses (Cal, Dakota, and Mitch come to mind) and ends with Alfred taking the blame (for Georgia, Penny, and most memorably Massie). If there’s one thing Matthew can say about it, though, it’s that Alfred comes out better after every break up (Carol and Virginia still keep in touch). Sure, Alfred will sulk for a while but he learns from it and moves on. So Matthew doesn’t understand _why_ Alfred is calling quits already when barely anything has even started; he’s been head over heels for the guy until just yesterday as documented by his Snap story.

“What exactly happened?” Matthew doesn’t usually press for questions but Alfred isn’t offering further details.

Alfred looks over at him, trying for a smile but it ends up looking bitter. “I said I wanted to make him dinner as a thank you for the play and everything. He said yes and took me grocery shopping. Then we went to his flat and he showed me around and… _god_ , I wanted to _stay_ there. I wanted to be there every day and cook for him and then he’ll wash up after and then we’ll kick back on the couch and--” he sucks in a breath.

“You kissed him,” Matthew completes the thought. “And did he--?”

“ _No!_ ” Alfred cries. “He - He pushed me away and that’s when I realized I made a huge fucking mistake!”

“Don’t you start shouting,” Matthew slaps his leg, making Alfred pout and sip on his drink instead to suffuse the urge. “So after he pushed you away, did he say anything? Did he kick you out?”

Alfred swallows, face grim. “I told him I had a heartboner.”

Matthew blinks.

“Then I grabbed my stuff and ran.”

Matthew blinks again. “Alfred?”

“Yeah…?”

“What. The. Fuck.” A snort escapes before Matthew can help it. The blush that spreads all over Alfred’s face clashes with the look of betrayal he wears, making it all the more funnier.

“It’s not funny!”

“Oh my god ahahaha and I was thinking you haha you did something so haha - _shit ahaha_ ” Matthew pushes his glasses up, raking back his bangs and wiping at his eyes with a fist. “ _I can’t believe you!_ ”

“And I can’t believe _you’re_ taking this lightly!” Alfred glares, affronted. “What if he never talks to me again? What if--”

“You _kissed_ him and _ran_! Hahaha!”

“I swear to god if you don’t stop laughing I am going to suffocate you with your own pillow.”

“Oh yeah?” Matthew challenges, looking at Alfred’s bleary form sans glasses. “And after that? You’re gonna face Arthur in court over killing your own brother?”

Alfred makes a choked sound, torn between wanting to see Arthur again and the likeliness of the scenario Matthew just presented. “Damn you.”

Matthew laughs heartily for a minute more, getting it all out of his system while Alfred sulks, slurping his milkshake loudly in an attempt to drown him out. Alfred hears him mutter ‘ _heartboner_ ’, followed by a wheezy snicker. He kicks Matthew’s calf that’s hanging off the bed but it doesn’t get him a reaction. Finally, Matthew puts on his glasses, blinking wet eyes until they focus sharply on his brother.

“Has he contacted you since?”

Alfred pops off the straw, smacking his lips together. “Nothing. Zilch. Nada. He probably never wants to talk to me again.”

“Maybe he’s just… processing things,” Matthew says reasonably, pushing himself to a sitting position across Alfred. “You just laid one on him out of the blue, anyone would be in shock.”

“But he… I mean… he was being all romantic with me first!” Alfred squashes the paper bag between his hands, the plastic cup inside it all empty. “He -- he made us reservations in fancy restaurants and then we took a walk around a park and there was a street magician and he bought me stickers!”

“Stickers,” Matthew repeats. “Truly romantic.”

“Oh shut up, you didn’t see him. He was singing and smiling and he was just so…” Alfred sighs. “He looked so confused after I kissed him. I don’t understand. The timing felt _right_ and he was _right there_ and I… Maybe I was too forward? I mean, it’s only the first date… and I didn’t even tell him it was an Official Date but…”

“But what if he wasn’t being romantic?” Matthew posits.

“If he wasn’t?”

“What if he was just being… I don’t know, nice?”

Alfred stares.

“We kind of assumed that Arthur bought you things and treated you all nice because he was wooing you or something,” Matthew explains. “If he flirted first and you made your move right back at him, he should have been ecstatic. He wouldn’t have pushed you away if he wanted to get with you from that start.”

“A-Are you saying what I _think_ you’re saying?”

“I could be wrong! When I first saw you two, I really thought there was something, honest. Arthur was really nice.”

“Nice.” The look on Alfred’s face did not convey anything remotely close to ‘Nice.’

“Don’t be like that,” Matthew chastises. “If you just talk to him I’m sure you’ll get things straightened out.”

“Talk to him? Sure, I’m dying to hear him say that he didn’t mean to make it look like he liked me that way. That I made a total fool of myself thinking he could like someone like me.”

“I said stop it!”

“Stop what? I’m just being realistic--”

“Hey!”

Alfred’s eyes go wide, a matching bout of pain erupting from his arms as Matthew grabs him tight, glasses glinting dangerously to match his stern expression.

“Listen, okay?” Matthew says, forcibly calm. “We don't know if Arthur had a romantic interest in you from the start. He certainly treats you special from what I've seen and maybe he just doesn't know it.”

“How can someone not _know_ \--”

“You didn’t know how much you liked him either until just recently.” Matthew’s tone is testy. “So he could’ve just been acting nice but it certainly _looked_ like flirting and we can’t blame you for acting on it. Now he knows that you like him, however, it’s up to him to realize if you mean the same to him.”

“Oh, that’s comforting.”

“Alfred, listen, you’ve had an eventful two days. I suggest you sleep on it and wait for him to make the next move.”

At the mention of ‘sleep’ Alfred visibly tampers down a yawn. “But… But what if he doesn’t make a move.”

“Then we’ll know the answer,” Matthew concludes simply. “Give him a week.”

“A week?” Alfred groans. “I _hate_ waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really really do love franada  
> but i know you're all here for UKUS so  
> i made a playlist set to this fic [over here](http://hopaiskalos.tumblr.com/post/165705583904)  
> hope you enjoy~
> 
> P.S. Canada's roomie is Cyprus. Also Amerca dated his States ;P


	9. Chapter 9

Michelle hates Mondays like any sane human being. All she wants to do is sleep in late but that would be irresponsible especially considering who her boss is.

Arthur Kirkland is a known terror at Allied Legal Corps. He’s snappy and sharp, Michelle thinks he’s probably part porcupine. Rumor has it his last secretary resigned from being too stressed, he was supposedly so out of it Arthur himself almost ran him over as he was crossing the street. After that, the details are fuzzy -- whether Arthur lectured him in the middle of the road or he took him for a sincere talk over coffee, the office is split in their belief -- but everyone agrees that the poor guy seemed much happier when he turned in his resignation paper the following Monday.

That ordeal supposedly softened Arthur a little and everyone keeps telling her how lucky she is not to have dealt with the demon Arthur was before. Personally, Michelle thinks it's bollocks.

(She has heard Arthur mutter the word many times, usually sounding irate, and it has somehow made it into her vocabulary. Specifically in reference to her boss.)

Arthur is still demanding and snobbish and she has to file for leave at least  _ a month _ ahead to get his approval. It's a hassle but the pay is good, not to mention the benefits.

As soon as she gets to the office, Michelle leaves her bag at her desk and goes straight to the pantry. She’s surprised to find someone already there.

“Atty. Rouzier! Good morning!”

“Hello, Michelle. I told you just Mona is fine.” She tucks a long strand of hair behind her ear, manicured fingers skimming over the braid laid over her left shoulder.

Michelle envies the effortless beauty she exudes. Atty. Ramona Rouzier is the ideal in her book. She can’t possibly just address her in such a casual manner.

“And aren’t you're looking cheerful today?”

“I am! I’ll be seeing my family in two weeks,” Michelle replies, taking a red tin down from the cupboards. “My sister got engaged and we’re throwing a bachelorette party.”

“Ooh, that sounds fun!” Ramona clasps her hands together. “I've got the water started, are you making coffee?”

“Tea, actually. For Atty. Kirkland.” The clink of fine china is almost melodic as Michelle sets them on a matching tray. “I only found out last Thursday and I immediately filed for leave. Surprisingly, he allowed it.”

“Did he now?” Ramona’s eyes are wide behind her glasses.

“Mmhm. He’s been in a surprisingly good mood recently. He only made me re-do my reports three times instead of seven last week!”

“Wow… That's…  _ very _ unusual.”

“Don't tell anyone,” Michelle whispers connivingly, putting her hand up to her mouth for effect. “But I  _ think _ he was looking forward to a date.”

“A date?”

“Yeah.” She nods vigorously. “Atty. Bondevik sent him two tickets to see some play and I've heard him humming showtunes in his office.”

“Oh, now I wish I went to see it too!” Ramona taps a finger on the corner of her lips, her manicure and liptint matching in hue. “No matter! I am going to get to the bottom of this.”

“It's not a case, attorney.”

“But it is!” Ramona counters. “It means our poor repressed Arthur has finally moved on! Took him a hell of a long time, but he did it!”

“I…” Michelle doesn't know how to tell her it's probably going to be futile. Arthur is impossibly prickly (like a porcupine) about personal matters. Before she could figure it out, however, the electric kettle switches off, having already reached boiling point. Michelle busies herself with setting up the tea tray.

“We've got that meeting on Wednesday, right?” Ramona fills her own mug with hot water, stirring in a French Vanilla mix. “The one with the Dean?”

“Yep.”

“Perfect!” Ramona smiles. “I’ll leave him in your capable hands ‘til then!”

“As if anyone else wants to deal with him,” Michelle mutters, making sure everything on the tray is perfectly aligned. Most bosses ask for a mug of coffee in the morning but Arthur requires a full tea set to start his day. Otherwise he’ll be extremely disagreeable.

 

The office fills up as eight o’clock approaches, the chatter mixing with computers starting up and keyboards clacking. Michelle grabs a sandwich with the other secretaries, swapping weekend stories and aligning their bosses’ schedule for the week. She dusts off her blouse and fixes her hair before heading back to her desk, stopping in surprise to find Arthur already in. The tea tray she had prepared is still on the side table.

Either Arthur hasn't seen it (which is impossible since it’s  _ right there _ ) or he’s already got tunnel vision for the day’s work. Michelle takes a steadying breath, she simply can't let Arthur burn himself out when the week is just starting. Balancing the tray on one hand, Michelle knocks on the hardwood.

“Good morning, sir, I'm bringing in your tea.” She waits for a confirmation, Arthur’s tone is usually her gauge for his mood. Five seconds pass without a word. Michelle wonders if Arthur is in a phone call and didn't hear her (it wouldn't be the first time). She decides to knock again just to make sure. “Atty. Kirkland?”

After ten seconds of no response, Michelle opens the door with an “Excuse me, I'm coming in.”

She finds Arthur inside but he’s not on his phone, nor is his laptop even open. Actually, Michelle isn't sure if he’s even  _ there _ at all.

Arthur just sits behind his desk, staring off into space. His briefcase is on the table, hand still clenched around the handle. He looks… distracted.

Michelle clears her throat and Arthur's gaze swivels towards her, green eyes wide and lost. It lasts for only a second but Michelle gets an impression of the oppressive tiredness that Arthur never shows.

A blink and Arthur seems to remember himself. He sits up. “M-Michelle, hello. Erm, come in.”

“How was your weekend, sir?” Michelle posits, setting the tea tray down on the side table. “Did you enjoy the play?”

“The… The play, yes, that was… enjoyable.” Arthur puts his briefcase aside, still looking a tad disconcerted as he walks over.

“How about your friend?” Michelle fishes, unable to curb her curiosity. Assuming her boss had a weekend date is one thing. Seeing him act so unusual after some hypothetical date only fuels her imagination.

“W-What friend?” Arthur is suddenly on the defensive, halfway into taking his seat.

“Well,” Michelle carefully treads the topic, half her attention on pouring Arthur a cup of tea. “Atty. Bondevik sent two tickets, right? Did you give the other one away?” It's usually what Arthur does when he’s sent these things. Sometimes he gives them to her (galas and movies and yes, even high end gift certificates) and Michelle did worry about what they meant until she realized that Arthur really did just prefer to pore over boring documents than socialize. This time though, he availed the tickets himself and it got Michelle wondering. (She was hoping to see Annie, too, but alas. Maybe next time.)

“No, I did  _ not _ give it away.” Arthur settles into his seat with a little huff. He pulls the cup and saucer towards him, adding in sugar and cream. “I had someone accompany me. A musical theater nerd, he calls himself…” And Arthur drifts off again, stirring his tea slower until the teaspoon clinks against the lip, reeling him back to the present. “He was a good sport.”

“That’s wonderful,” Michelle smiles, setting the teapot down. At least the ticket didn't go to waste. “Maybe you guys can go out again soon?” Her smile freezes in place when Arthur makes a choking sound. Is the concept of a second date really that unusual? Or maybe Michelle just has him pegged wrong. This  _ is  _ her boss, after all. In any case, “It sounds like you had fun!”

Yeah, right. The idea of Arthur Kirkland having  _ fun _ is like seeing pigs fly.

“Oh.” Slowly, Arthur lowers the handkerchief he’d been using to cover his mouth, tucking it inside his blazer pocket. “I suppose we did,” he says, picking up his tea once more.

“There you go! So there  _ should _ be a next time for sure.”

“I don't know about that, I'm busy and he’s…” Arthur trails off, worry knitting his brows together as he stares into his cup. “I don't know what he wants.”

Michelle gapes.  _ Holy shit. _ She's pretty sure Arthur is blushing, faint as it is and hidden further by the bags under his eyes. It… humanizes him. And it makes her sorry for taking such jabs at him in her internal monologue. Michelle sets down the teapot and takes the seat across Arthur. “Sir, if I may, you have every right to immerse in something other than work. Something you’d enjoy.”

“I happen to  _ enjoy _ my work very much.” Arthur takes a sip of tea. “And I like being productive.”

“True that. You barely make a dent on your vacation leaves.” Arthur raises a brow at her muttering but Michelle doesn't back down. “I'm not just saying this as your secretary, sir, but all this focus on work leaves you out of touch with, well, other things.  _ Important _ things.”

“Are you  _ lecturing _ me?”

There's a haughty touch to the question that tells her Arthur has enough tea in his system to be back to his usual self. Michelle smiles, somehow having grown fonder of her boss in these last five minutes. “Not at all. I've got your schedule for the day, sir, if you'd like a rundown?”

“Very well. Have yourself a cuppa then let's have that schedule.”

* * *

Arthur is in meetings for the rest of the day, starting with the review of a prospective partnership with a women’s center at ten thirty. Michelle can hear his sharp voice muffled through the closed door, no doubt scrutinizing the paperwork he’d left to his subordinates. They're still locked in by noontime so Michelle figures she wouldn't be missed if she slips out for lunch. She's in the middle of gathering her things when a polite cough makes her look up.

“Atty. Aveiro, good afternoon!” Michelle quickly hides her handbag behind her back. “I'm afraid Atty. Kirkland is still in a meeting.”

A loud slam followed by arguing voices come from Arthur's office, making both outsiders wince.

“Looks like it.” Ronaldo Aveiro, executive director, clicks his tongue. “And here I wanted to know why he refused all my calls this weekend.”

“He did?” Michelle couldn't help being surprised.

“Most unusual, isn’t it? I'm wondering if he fell ill.”

“He looked perfectly healthy this morning,” Michelle recalls. “Oh, but he went to see a play last weekend. Must have turned off his phone.”

Ronaldo makes a contemplative sound, putting a hand to his chin and rubbing a random spot absently in thought.

“Did you have something important to discuss with him?”

“Ah, no, not really.” Ronaldo smiles a tad sheepish. “I was going to invite him for drinks with Tonio yesterday but apparently he wasn't taking calls.” After a pause, he adds. “Wait, was that the play Lukas was pushing on everybody? The little orphan girl one?”

“It's called Annie and yes, that was the show. Didn't you go to it?”

“Not my thing. I gave my tickets to Atish.” Ronaldo shrugs. “Come to think of it, Arthur did say something about getting his brother to come along.”

“B-Brother?” Michelle has the impression that Arthur wanted nothing to do with his brothers given his blanket order to block all messages from them. She even has a designated folder for anything coming from any other Kirkland that she makes sure never to forward to her boss.

Ronaldo seems to understand her confusion, no doubt knowing more about the Kirkland family drama since he is an old friend. “The little one, you know? The one at W University,” he clarifies.

“Oh. Right.” Still, Michelle isn't convinced that Arthur was with his brother last weekend. He seemed way too different this morning; dazed and blushing like a teenager.

“Arthur was what?”

The question makes her head snap up. Ronaldo looks confused. Michelle is even more so. “Um, sorry?”

“You said Arthur was blushing?”

Michelle's eyes go wide.  _ Shit _ . Did she say that out loud? “A-Ah, no. I never said anything like that, haha,” she forces a smile. “Must be my stomach rumbling. Yeah, that's it.”

“Right…” It doesn't look like he believes her, though. “Sorry to have kept you, Michelle. You go on have your lunch. I’ll catch Arthur another time.”

“O-Okay.” Michelle grips her handbag tight. “Bye.” She dashes out from behind her desk, heels clacking as she heads straight for the elevator. It's really troublesome being around these super smart lawyers who treat everything like it’s a criminal procedure. Even the most unfounded gossip would turn out to have something or another behind it just because their huge brains got bored. She hopes Atty. Aveiro forgets about that little slip.

 

Grim-faced underlings scamper out of Arthur’s office at half past one. Michelle takes this as her cue to check in on her boss. Arthur is sorting stacks of paper on his desk, streaks of red ink all over the printed text.

“What would you like for lunch, sir?”

“I'm not hungry, Michelle. I have to prepare for my two o’clock.”

“Yeah, about that.” Michelle crosses her fingers behind her back. “Your two o’clock emailed just now, saying they’ll be late. Stuck in traffic.”

“They did?”

“Yes. Now you've got time for lunch. You can't do your job on an empty stomach.”

Arthur frowns. Michelle has pulled this stunt on him too many times to count. So far, none of his clients minded waiting an extra ten minutes. He sighs, conceding. “Alright, get me whatever's left in the cafeteria.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

The afternoon is spent organizing case files and reviewing the presentation Arthur is supposed to give at W University on Wednesday. She's in the middle of updating a line graph when an email from Arthur comes in.

Her boss is still in a meeting as far as she knows. Curious as to what could be so urgent to sway Arthur’s attention for ten seconds, Michelle opens the email.

There's no subject line and no salutation either. It says:

_ Find courier to deliver groceries to W Uni dorm. Bringing 4 bags tomorrow morning. _

That's… um. Unusual doesn't even cut it. Michelle rereads the two-sentence instruction and frowns. Looking up from her cubicle, she spots a coworker passing by. Hailing their attention, she asks, “Do you know if couriers take groceries?”

“Uh…” Cameron looks around him, wondering if the question is directed at someone else. Finding no other person nearby, he points to himself. “You're asking me?”

“Yeah.”

Securing the stack of bound documents in his arms, Cameron walks over. “I know supermarkets that can deliver to your doorstep but I'm not sure you can ask couriers to do that. That's probably not even safe.”

“You think so?”

“Why are you even sending groceries, anyway?”

“It's not for me. The boss wants to send groceries to… I’m guessing his brother’s dorm?”

“Why won't he just take them there himself?” Cameron asks sensibly, pushing his glasses up his nose. “He has a car.”

“I… have no idea,” Michelle admits. “But if he wants couriers then I'll get him one. Thanks, anyway, Cameron.”

“No problem,” he smiles. “You're doing way better than the last guy.”

“The one who almost got ran over?”

“Poor Hutt,” Cameron shakes his head in sympathy. “I heard he founded a vegan sandwich shop, though. Good for him.”

It takes half a dozen phone calls but Michelle finally finds the man for the job. She has just put down her phone when the door to Arthur’s office opens. A young man stalks out with his arms crossed and a matching expression on his face. Behind him is an older man in a pinstriped suit, looking equally glum. Arthur is shaking hands with a woman in a colorful patterned robe, her face shining with delight. They exchange some final words in subdued voices, then Arthur sees them off. When he comes back, he motions for Michelle to follow him back into his office. Armed with a pen and her notepad, Michelle closes the door behind her.

“We’ve agreed to settle privately with Mr. Hudson to keep the matter out of the public eye,” Arthur says without preamble. “I've got the draft of our agreed terms here but his lawyer should be emailing a finalized copy by the end of this week. Cross-check that with our copy” he hands her the relevant folder “before we get Lukas to sign off.”

“Okay.”

“Has Jason sent in the revised contract?” Arthur consults his open laptop, scrolling quickly through dozens of unread messages.

“I haven't seen anything.” Michelle notes it down. She's usually looped in all emails to her boss, if they aren't sent to her directly for proper filtering. “I’ll follow up first thing tomorrow.”

“I need to review that  _ tonight _ .”

“I'll check with him immediately, then.”

Arthur nods without looking up at her.

“By the way, I've got the courier service you requested. They can pick up the items by eight am or we can schedule it for the afternoon.”

“Morning is fine. Can we trust them to make an immediate delivery? I've got frozen goods to send.”

“They have an express delivery option but it comes at an additional cost.”

“That's fine. Get the express.”

“Okay. May I have the full delivery address? Oh, and the addressee, too.”

Arthur recites the details while clearing his inbox. It's already past five but there's still a lot left to do. Outside, the office is growing quiet, employees bidding each other goodbye.

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

He's sure Michelle is raring to leave as well.

“That will be all, thank you.” Arthur spares her a glance. “You may leave after completing the courier appointment.”

“I'll get right to it, then.”

 

Michelle books the courier for an 8AM pick up tomorrow, thankful for the courier service’s fully functional website. She forwards the confirmation email to Arthur then shuts down her computer. Humming quietly, she passes through the maze of cubicles to deposit her mug in the pantry for cleaning, stopping by one of the few occupied workstations left on her way out.

A thick-set man is typing furiously, eyes set on his computer screen that he doesn't even notice her until she waves a hand in front of his face. “Gah!” He reels back, blinking owlishly until he sees her perched at the corner.

Michelle gives a friendly wave.

Pulling off a pair of earbuds from his ears, Jason straightens in his seat and asks, “Can I help you?”

“Atty. Kirkland says he needs the revised contract tonight,” Michelle relays, sympathetic when the man sighs at her words.

“I’m working on it, geez. ’M practically glued to my seat until it’s done. Is the boss still in?”

“Oh, you know him, he’ll be the one to close up the office as usual.”

“So he’s not going on a date tonight?”

“I…  _ What _ ? Where did you get that idea?” Michelle demands, leaning forward. Are there rumors already? Who could’ve possibly… Miss Ramona? No, it can’t be. She might love curious to a fault but she never gossips about anything unfounded. Michelle can’t recall even remotely discussing it with anyone else, save for the brief mention she made of it in the pantry that morning. Maybe she was talking too loud and someone overheard? Ohhh, if they trace it back to her, Arthur would be livid for sure.

Jason smirks. “Bran saw him around The Axis last weekend with some guy. He got a photo from afar and it definitely looked like him.”

_ A photo. _ Oh how Michelle wishes she’d seen it but then she catches the leering look in Jason’s eyes and her mood changes completely. “And you’re spreading the photos around like some paparazzi nude leak?” Michelle hisses.

“Whoa, okay. Chill out.” Jason raises his hands as a protective measure. Michelle looks seconds away from jumping over the table and strangling him. “Atty. Rouzier saw us–”

“Miss Ramona?”

“Yeah. And she confiscated Bran’s phone, all the photos were gone when she returned it.” Jason raises a brow at her. “Said those were an invasion of privacy and she doesn’t want anyone talking about it or else it’ll be grounds for defamation.  _ Puh-lease _ . Being secretive of something only makes people talk about it more. She should  _ know _ that.”

Michelle, however, is relieved. This office really is full of people too curious for their own good but she trusts Ramona. The mere fact that Ramona hasn’t send her copies of the photo tells enough that the woman knows her boundaries. “Well, you should forget about it and focus on that contract.”

Jason harrumphs. “Okay,  _ Miss Secretary _ .” He turns back to his computer, set on continuing with his work, but then he seems to think better of it and looks at her again. “Y’know, we wouldn’t be talking behind his back if he acted more likeable. Sharing is caring and all that.”

“Yeah? Well, you wouldn’t be working overtime if you did your job right the first time.” Michelle shoulders her bag stiffly. “Bye, Jason.” She leaves the sharp clacking of heels in her wake, heading straight for the elevators. When the doors close and with no one else in the cabin with her, Michelle slumps against the back wall.

_ Ugh _ . She should not have snapped at him like that. But he was being rude! Michelle hates it, too, when he gets super nitpicky about reports and makes her redo them again and again. Arthur may not be the most agreeable person on the planet but he doesn’t work them hard out of spite. As their boss, it’s only natural that he wants – he  _ expects _ – the best of them. He’s training them to be better and for that, they owe him a great deal of respect.

Arthur keeps his private and professional life separate and that’s normal for anyone. He could be a little warmer, yes, but it’s not right to snoop into his personal business. No matter how curious they all are about it.

With a happy little  _ ping _ , the elevator opens at the ground floor. Michelle can’t believe it’s only Monday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have just tagged this as ensemble cast :3 here’s more nation-tans~ (do we still call them that in 2017?)  
> Michelle - Seychelles  
> Ramona/Mona Rouzier - Monaco  
> Ronaldo Aveiro - Portugal  
> Cameron - Cameroon
> 
> With mentions of  
> Lukas Bondevik - Norway  
> Rajan Atish Chatterjee - India  
> Hutton - Hutt River  
> Branimir/Bran - Bulgaria
> 
> Jason is a random guy I don’t know if we’ll ever see him again. Bye.
> 
>  
> 
> In other news, I have no self-preservation skills at all so I decided to do [Kinktober with UKUS over here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12247728). I'm just aiming for drabbles and doodles so hopefully it doesn't interfere much with this C:


	10. Chapter 10

It’s been three days and Alfred has gotten neither call nor email from Arthur.

Four bags of groceries turned up at the dorm yesterday and seeing them made Alfred freeze on the spot. At least until he found out they were addressed to _Peter_. He swallowed down his disappointment as he went about storing them properly, trying hard not to remember how they came to be.

It’s official. Arthur hates him after all.

 

Alfred covers a sneeze with the sleeve of his jacket, the cuffs are a little loose and the threading thin about the elbows but it gives him a sense of comfort. The weather is steadily getting colder and he should have worn more layers but he spent too long staring at his ceiling, looking for the will to get up. By the time Peter called him out on it, Alfred was running late and didn’t have time to grab something other than his old hoodie and yesterday’s jeans. He only has two classes today, anyway, and they’re both in the morning. By lunchtime he’ll be free and he knows exactly where to go. He just has to survive his least favorite class.

Professor Abelen’s classroom is arctic cold, which is great when taking summer classes but it's fall now and half the class is shaking in their boots. Not just from the super low AC, but because of the professor’s severe attitude. Alfred had the option of taking the same class under a different professor but Abelen has gotten world-wide recognition for his engineering feats and think pieces; it would have been downright stupid to waste an opportunity to learn from the man himself. Even if he is a bit of a frosty jerk.

Alfred’s phone lights up from a new message – Kiku won’t be at the animanga club room later since he’s loaded with readings but he welcomes Alfred to find him at the library. So much for another gaming marathon. With his afternoon plans derailed, Alfred returns his attention to the group presenting upfront.

They’ve been working on a semester-long project and Prof. Abelen is making a routine check. Alfred, Thaksin, and the rest of their group already presented last Monday. Prof. Abelen noted that they were on the right track but suggested a few improvements and other variables to test (which they already _did_ because Alfred’s group is reliable like that and he doesn’t know how he would’ve been able to stay afloat in class without them.)

Ivan has just presented his group’s output and Eduard is answering Prof. Abelen’s queries.

“He seems impressed,” Thaksin says, seated on the chair right next to Alfred.

“You think?” Alfred hasn’t paid much attention. He’s usually much more alert when Ivan is in the spotlight -- being so-called rivals and all -- but he’s just... not in the mood today. Hasn’t been in the mood since Monday, actually, but he had to put his game face on for their presentation so now he allows himself to idle.

“Abelen’s talking about other applications of their project already,” Thaksin informs him. “They’re only 80% done.”

“We’re at 80%, too,” Alfred retorts. “And our final product will be so much better.”

“Oh, you bet.”

Alfred’s grin fades once Thaksin focuses back on the presenters.

 

“Alfred? Is that you?”

He blinks back to reality, surprised to find Toris right in front of him. His hair is tied into a low ponytail and he’s looking at him with great concern. Bathed in sunlight, Toris looks like an angel sent to deliver Alfred into the afterlife.

“This is how I want to go…”

Tori’s eyebrows knit together. “You’re speaking your thoughts outloud again, Alfred.”

“I am?” Alfred shakes his head to rid himself of the lethargic feeling. Looking around, he finds himself on a bench outside the Engineering complex. He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting out there but the cloudy sky saved him a bad case of sunburn. “Sorry I must’ve spaced out.”

“Are you, like, okay?” Feliks pops out from behind Toris, looking intrigued. “Still hung up on your date?”

At the mention of his date, Alfred goes completely still. Fuck. He forgot that Feliks knew about it. Hell, how could he forget that Feliks knew when _Feliks_ was the one who fed him the idea that Arthur liked him in the first place?

“Alfred went on a date?” Toris is asking Feliks now. “Since when was he seeing anybody?”

“I don’t think they’re official juuuust yet but you’ve seen his Snap story, right? The guy who was singing Annie -- he had such a nice voice, by the way.”

“ _That_ guy? Oh my god.” Toris’ mouth hangs open. “ _Alfred!_ ”

“I…” Alfred’s first instinct is to shoot down the idea but Toris looks… happy for him.

“Hey, we’ve got free time, wanna tell us all about it?” Feliks sits down on the bench beside Alfred, grinning.

“I’d love to hear about it, too,” Toris adds, seating himself on Alfred’s other side. “It’s been ages since we talked. I thought you said you didn’t want to date until after graduating?”

“Toris, c’mon, it’s like I never taught you anything.” Feliks clicks his tongue. “You don’t fight love when it comes for you, you embrace it. And Alfred here knows that, am I right?”

“Um.”

“There’s always a time and place for everything,” Toris counters, gently chiding his over-enthusiastic friend. “I’m sure Alfred knows that, too. So anyway, how did it go?”

Alfred gulps. He can’t let this go on. It’s been three days and he can’t keep fooling himself. Peter asked him how the weekend went and he’d told him the play was fine, which is _true_ but it also omitted half the story. Alfred hates lying, but in Peter’s case he can’t exactly tell the guy he laid one on his brother. This time, though, he can’t lie to his peers. Feliks is plenty involved in this matter and he has always found Toris to be understanding.

“It went awful,” Alfred finally says.

“What?”

“You’re lying.”

“You two were so cute in your Snaps.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He understands their doubt but there’s really no other way around it. “I made a move on him and he pushed me away.”

“Oh my god.” Feliks looks appropriately stricken. “Are you for real?”

“Everything was going great until I ruined it.” Alfred sags, staring down at a stain on his jeans. He doesn’t even remember how that got there. “Now he won’t talk to me and I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Did you apologize?” Toris asks, placing a comforting hand on Alfred’s shoulder. They were roommates all of last year until Toris shifted majors and opted to move to a different dorm. Alfred had been supportive of Toris’ choice, gave him a pep talk and everything, told him to go after his dreams. It’s a shame that Toris finds him like this now, months after moving out and with limited communication since, nursing a wounded heart.

“I did.” Alfred heaves a sigh. “Then I ran out on him.”

“Oh, Alfie.” Feliks’ leans against his arm, comforting. “Maybe you just caught him by surprise? Maybe he’s working up the courage to talk to you again?”

“That’s what Mattie said, but I just…“ Alfred pauses, feeling a weight atop his head. He turns his eyes up and balks. “Why are you here, Ivan?”

Ivan Braginsky, varsity grappling champion and currently tied with Alfred on the Dean’s List, smiles down at him. Gloved hands cushion his chin as he puts more of his weight on Alfred, intimidating. “You looked troubled in class today, Alfred. I came to see for myself what was wrong.”

Alfred didn’t think he could sink any lower than this but apparently even _Ivan_ has honed in on his failure. “Ugh… fine. Whatever.”

“… Something is very wrong.” Ivan’s smile vanishes and he quickly lifts his hands off Alfred. “You are supposed to throw a come back. What is this?” he demands.

“He’s moping, Ivan,” Toris explains to his roommate. “Heartache.”

“Not that you’d know what a heart _is_ ,” Feliks quips and Toris sends him a Look.

Ivan either didn’t hear Feliks or has chosen to ignore him, busy walking around the bench to stand in front of the trio. “Who did this to you, Alfred?”

The look of clear distress on Ivan’s face is unnerving. Alfred squares his shoulders, sitting more upright. “I didn’t know you cared so much.”

“But of course! It’s no fun beating you down when you’re already at you’re lowest. So. Who did it?”

“I’m not telling you,” Alfred frowns.

“Why not? We are comrades, yes?”

“We’re really not.”

Ivan pouts. “I’ll just ask Toris later, then.”

“Wha-- Toris, you _wouldn’t!_ ”

“It’s a private matter, Ivan,” Toris says, appeasing both parties. “If Alfred doesn’t wish to share then it’s not right for me to speak of it.”

Alfred smirks, comforted that Toris chose his side of the argument.

“Anyway,” Feliks starts, garnering everyone else’s attention. “There’s this lecture at the Psych department at one, you wanna come with us?”

“Neither of you are taking Psych, though.” Alfred points out, but then he gets unsure. “Are you?”

“Nope,” Feliks confirms. “But the topic looked interesting so we’re checking it out.”

“What’s it about?”

[“Horney's Theory of Neurotic Needs.” ](http://changingminds.org/explanations/needs/horney_needs.htm)

“Ugh. Big words.”

“Come on, Alfred, it should be fun.”

“What about you, Ivan?” Toris asks.

“I’ve got class,” Ivan replies. “You’re welcome to sit in, though, Toris.”

“Hey, we made plans first.” Feliks stands up but even in his full height (plus wedges) he is dwarfed by Ivan.

“Yes, but my plan is better, _ да _?”

Toris looks between them, growing nervous. “Y-You two, please--”

“Leave him alone, Ivan,” Alfred says, what little relief he’d found in talking with Feliks and Toris has completely dissipated with Ivan’s intrusion.

“Or what?”

“Ivan! There you are!”

Eduard von Bock, dressed too formally for any normal student in his pressed shirt and navy slacks, comes marching up to their group.

“Hey, Eduard,” Toris greets.

“Toris,” Eduard nods at him. He sees Alfred on the bench and gives him a nod, too, which Alfred returns with a brief wave. His glasses glint once he turns his attention to Ivan. “And you.”

“Hello Eduard,” Ivan says, light and airy.

“We were discussing our project when you suddenly walked off,” Eduard snaps. “I thought it was something important but you’re just chatting here.”

“I was inviting Toris to sit in at our next class.” Ivan says, unremorseful.

“He’s not an engineering major, Ivan.” Eduard sounds testy. “Now get back there, the others are waiting.”

“I’ll just see you at dinner, Ivan.” Toris remains seated, the dismissal made all the more clear by his calm posture.

Ivan observes him for a moment then he inclines his head. “Very well. Later, Toris.”

Eduard huffs, straightening his glasses as he waits for Ivan to move.

“Alfred, I hope your heartache gets better. It would be a shame if that influences your class project.”

“Worry about your own, Ivan,” Alfred retorts. “Heartache or no, our project will turn out better than yours.”

“We’ll see about that,” Ivan smiles sharply. “ _До свида́ния_.”

Eduard and Ivan return to the building with Alfred glaring at their backs the whole time. Once they’re out of sight, Alfred goes “What the hell did he just call me?”

Toris starts at this. “Who did?”

“Ivan. He said _Dos vid-_ something.”

“I’m pretty sure that was just goodbye.”

“Oh.” Alfred scratches his nose. “Well, it sounded like an insult.”

“When does it not, coming from that guy?” Feliks puts a hand on his hips.

“Why did you have to switch dorms, Toris?” Alfred moans. “I’m way more awesome than him! I bet he doesn’t even cook you dinner.”

“No, I… actually do all the cooking,” Toris admits. “B-But sometimes his sister Natasha comes around and…”

“Ugh, look at him blush.” Feliks gestures at Toris’ face.

Alfred cranes his neck to watch the sky, heaving a out a sigh. “I miss you, Toris. I mean, my new roomie is nice and all but if you never moved out I--” He gulps. “I wouldn’t have met--”

“--you so much, Professor. Atty. Rouzier here will be in touch with you shortly.”

It’s as if everything goes into slow motion, even the air in his lungs cease to flow. His surroundings blur, Alfred doesn’t even realize he’s stood up until his knees go weak, threatening his collapse, eyes drinking in the sight just across the courtyard.

The Law building is right beside the Engineering complex, their front lawns both filled with loitering students but it’s something more extraordinary that catches Alfred’s attention.

Striding amidst the crowd is a statuesque man with chiseled features and flaxen hair that falls past his shoulders. He’s accompanied by a bespectacled woman in a rose-colored coat and the very person Alfred has been aching to see.

Arthur looks impeccable in a navy pinstripe suit, his expression calm, eyes focused on the woman who is speaking now.

Alfred doesn’t register her voice, he doesn’t hear Toris nor Feliks right beside him, he can’t bother to pay attention to anything else when Arthur is _right there_.

The first man (Alfred thinks he’s probably the Dean) shakes Arthur’s hand and that of the woman’s. His expression is severe but Arthur’s mouth is hitched into a small smile, a victorious smile. He returns to the Law building right after, his companions heading the other way. Leaving.

Arthur is leaving and Alfred’s hand twitches, wanting to reach out. His throat itches to shout his name, to apologize one more time. Alfred’s chest aches, he can’t breathe, and just when it seems like he’s about to burst Arthur’s gaze sweeps through the courtyard. Green eyes find him.

 

“--list of candidates stat and--” Ramona stops, finding Arthur no longer beside her. “Arthur?”

Arthur is frozen on the pavement, gripping his briefcase like a lifeline.

“Arthur?” When the man doesn’t respond to his name a second time, Ramona gets intrigued. She backtracks until she is beside him, following his line of sight towards the adjacent building. There’s nothing unusual as far as she can see -- a sculpture on the front lawn, cats lying on the grass, students milling about, studying, eating, three guys standing beside a bench staring in their direction, another cat -- oh. Those guys.

Ramona recognizes the guy in the middle. Tall, blond, athletic. She’s seen him before, just this Monday in fact, in a photo she’d confiscated from one of the junior associates.

She side-eyes Arthur and finds him flushed pink. It can’t all be from the cold.

_Oh, this is gold._

 

“Holy shit, Toris, it’s that guy.”

“Why is he here?”

“Beats me but damn he looks fine -- ow.”

Alfred wants to go over there. He needs to know if Arthur is alright, if _they’re_ alright. Alfred shouldn’t have ran away that night but he got scared, overwhelmed by his own feelings. It was safer to distance himself before he could do worse things than kiss Arthur. The memory of those lips have faded but the look of surprise Arthur wore on their parting is vivid as ever. Alfred just wants to make it right again.

“Arthur…”

 

He jolts as if struck by a bolt of lightning and would’ve lost balance if Ramona wasn’t close enough to steady him.

“Arthur, are you alright?”

“I’m fine, just… need to talk to…”

“Is he a friend?” Ramona nods towards Alfred who has taken a few tentative steps towards them.

“I… yes, yes, he’s…” Arthur licks his chapped lips. He gives Ramona a look that would have been authoritative if not for the distracted way he kept looking back at the teen as if he was going to disappear if he diverted his attention for even a moment. “I’ll meet you at the car in five minutes.”

“Oh, it’s fine, I’ll just… stay here.” Arthur has walked off before Ramona even finished her sentence. Hmph. Well, she’s definitely not heading off to the parking lot now.

 

When he sees Arthur walking towards him, Alfred’s feet goes a little faster. It’s only a short distance but he’s still a little breathless when he says, “Hi.”

“Hello, Alfred.” Arthur looks him up and down, standing poised in contrast to the slight slouch brought on by Alfred’s hunched shoulders. “Did you and Peter get the groceries I sent yesterday?”

Groceries, okay, safe topic. “I -- We did, thanks. I didn’t think you were going to send them after--”

“Well of course I wasn’t going to keep them,” Arthur interrupts. “I bought them for _you_.”

Alfred purses his lips and nods, unsure how to proceed now. He’s memorizing Arthur’s face, an irrational fear inside of him saying this might be his last chance to see it this close, that he would be dismissed any second now. But then Arthur doesn’t speak either. The dull weather dims the glow in his eyes, keen as they are in searching Alfred’s face.

“Are you okay, Art?”

“You alright there?”

Simultaneous questions come from them both, faces coloring pink as they’re left dumbfounded.

“You first,” Arthur insists, making Alfred pout.

“But why?”

“I’m more worried about your answer to be honest.”

Alfred figures half the reason is because of how sloppily he's dressed at the moment. That, plus the fact that Ivan had been goading him into a fight just now certainly added to his stress levels. He sighs. “I’m not fine, like, at all.” Alfred isn’t asking for pity, he’s just laying out the truth because Arthur asked it of him. He can’t lie, looking him in the eye. “I’m still so very sorry for what I did. I tried to email you but I kept losing my nerve every time. It doesn’t feel like a proper apology if I say it like that. I, um, waited if you’d call or anything but nothing came and I’ve been thinking that you probably hate me now. I wouldn't blame you at all but… You're here and you're talking to me so I'm… a little bit happier?”

Arthur’s posture relaxes like his whole body is sighing. “I don't hate you, Alfred, but I am…” he purses his lips, choosing his next words carefully “I’m very cross at what you did.”

Alfred bows his head. So Arthur never was flirting with him from the start. He feels like a total idiot, getting swept up in unfounded feelings. Being turned down like this is the worst… well, no, not really. At least Arthur is letting him off face to face. At least it's going to be a clean cut and he wouldn't spend years wondering what he did wrong. Still, the pain in his chest has magnified and it’s making his exhale rumble like a storm.  “I-I deserve that. I know I crossed a line so… I understand if you never want to see me again.”

“If I _what_?”

Alfred bites his tongue, startled by the sudden shout. Arthur stands closer, nose scrunched up the way it does when he gets angry but only means half of it. Dear god, he’s adorable. Unintentional flirting or no, Alfred is sure he would have fallen for him anyway.

“Never see you again?” Arthur’s voice goes high-pitched, hissing the words like they’re poison.

Alfred doesn’t know what else to offer him; he’s sure he offended Arthur when he got too close but apparently the idea of him staying away gets Arthur all mad. Cute, but mad.

A moment later, Arthur catches himself standing almost nose to nose with Alfred. He clears his throat, settling back on his feet. He would check if people somehow started staring but he finds that he can’t look away with Alfred staring at him like that. “On the contrary. I… I think I'm seeing you in a different light now.”

Arthur is most definitely red in the face; whether it’s from blushing, or from his little temper flare earlier, the result is a color that could rival a tomato. Alfred’s face feels hot as well, unable to believe what he'd just heard with his own two ears. “A better light?” _Fuck_ he's hoping.

Arthur contemplates his admission for a second. “Yes,” he says, quickly before any second thoughts could retract the statement. “And I'm very cross about it.”

The matter-of-fact way he says it has Alfred laughing, a little dizzy with emotional whiplash. “Why?”

“Because… Because it’s left me confused, is why. I liked you well enough and I was sure you felt the same to subject yourself to my company.”

“Harsh, Artie. I enjoy your company a lot.”

“But then you go _do_ that and now you’ve got me thinking if you like me more than--”

“I do.” The vice around his chest is gone, taking his brain-to-mouth filter with it. But god does it feel good to finally say that to Arthur, to have it out in the open instead of being all hush-hush like a dirty secret. “I like you more than… well, more than friends, that’s for sure.”

Arthur’s eyes go a little watery, brows scrunching up. “That’s…”

“It’s true.” Alfred insists. “Is… that weird?”

“Heaven’s sake no… I mean, yes, that’s weird for me, but…” Arthur searches his face again. “I can’t believe this.”

“I could… kiss you again? If you wanna make sure.”

Arthur swats his arm, screeching. “Don’t be daft!”

More laughter spills out of Alfred, his grin stretching wide when Arthur follows the weak hit with the smallest of smiles, unable to hide his own amusement.

He waits for Alfred’s laughter to subside before speaking once more, “I think I need some more time to process this.”

“Okay.”

“And I think some distance will be necessary.”

“What?”

“I can’t think straight with you in the vicinity,” Arthur complains, wearing something that looks like a pout. “I’ve been a stuttering mess this entire conversation. Surely, you’ve noticed.”

“Yeah, but I thought it was cute.”

“Like that!” Arthur accuses. “You don’t just say things like that.”

“Aww.”

“Back to my point.” Arthur tries to cross his arms but the briefcase in hand stunts that plan. Embarrassed, he shoves his free hand into his pocket to appear casual. “It would be best that we have some distance until I have an appropriate response to your confession.”

“So I won’t get to see you until… whenever that is?” Alfred’s euphoria evaporates, leaving him with a slight frown.

“I… yes.” Arthur’s gaze finally leaves him, dwindling to the ground between them. “I’m sorry if it seems unfair.”

The wind blows coldly but Alfred is unaffected. “It’s okay. I can wait.” It’s better knowing that Arthur is considering it rather than being rejected from the start. He has a chance and that’s already more than he could hope for at this point.

“You will?”

“Yes!”

Alfred’s readiness surprises him. Charms him. Arthur figures he can give the guy some consolation. “I’m glad to hear that. You may still reach me through call or email, and I assure you I will reply as always.”

Alfred beams. “Gotcha.”

Arthur returns the sentiment with a smile of his own and the space between them fills with anticipation, both breathing easier, hearts thrumming with hope.

“Can I hug you?” Alfred blurts out.

“Um.”

“Since we won’t be seeing each other for a while I thought… well, uh, it would… seal the deal?”

Arthur stares, suddenly unused to seeing Alfred act shy around him. It’s… endearing.

“No wait, shit. I look like a hobo, I can’t--”

“Oh, just come here would you.”

 

Toris hears the snap of a camera from beside him, finding Feliks with his flip phone pointed at the two men. “Feliks!”

“What?” Feliks holds his phone away before Toris can snatch it. “I’m doing this for Alfred. He’s totally going to wanna frame this moment. I mean, look at them, they’re so cute!” He takes another photo. “Tsk. It’s still pixelated. Stupid outdated camera.”

Toris sighs, pulling up his smartphone. “ _I’ll_ take the photo. I keep telling you to upgrade your phone.”

“Shut up, Toris, it’s a fashion statement.”

 

“Normally, people shake on agreements.”

Alfred grins into Arthur’s shoulder, squeezing him just a little bit tighter. Arthur’s hands are warm on his back. “This is better,” he whispers back, making Arthur’s breath hitch.

As they pull apart, Alfred chances to see the woman in the pink coat standing off to one side. She’s watching them and it occurs to him that she’s waiting on Arthur. It’s only midday, they must be headed back to work. “I’ll let you go now,” Alfred says, dropping his hands but the tender look in his eyes remain. “Your, ah, coworker’s waiting.”

“Who?” Arthur looks behind him and chokes.

Ramona gives them a friendly wave. Alfred waves back, albeit unsurely.

“I _told_ her to meet me at the parking lot,” Arthur grumbles. Composing himself, he looks up at Alfred once more. “Let’s keep in touch.”

“Awesome,” Alfred agrees, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie to keep them still. “See ya, Art.”

Arthur stares for a second longer, then nods and walks away. Ramona’s smile is much too wide. “I thought I told you to wait in the car.”

“You didn’t give me the keys,” Ramona argues. “You don’t expect me to stand around in these heels all the way out there. Besides, there’s much more interesting things going on here. Who’s the blondie?”

“Never you mind.”

“A friend of yours?”

Arthur would normally sigh, put-upon, but his lightened mood isn't so easily swayed. “Yes.”

“Why does he get a hug?” Ramona asks, heels clicking merrily as she matches his strides. “We’re friends and you never hug me.”

“He asked for a hug and it was harmless.”

“Ah.” Ramona looks back, finding the guy already walking back to the bench he came from. “What’s his name?”

“And you need to know, _because_?”

“Because he made you smile just now.”

Arthur eyes her suspiciously, the color in his cheeks yet to subside.

“I also need it so Basch can run a background check,” Ramona adds once they reach Arthur’s car. “Police records, medical history, the works.”

“He's not one for your database. So if you’d please.”

The car beeps as Arthur unlocks it, gesturing for her to get in.

Ramona holds his glare for a beat. “Is he yours, then?”

Arthur goes stiff and Ramona could just about imagine steam coming out of his reddened ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s one week to HDay PH and I’m sick *sniffle*  
> Please leave a nice review to comfort this poor author~ = 3 =
> 
> I was planning on some drama like Arthur walking away. Or a random football getting thrown in and then Davie sweeps Alfred up like good chums. But then I was like, fuck that. They are adults and they will confront their problems properly.
> 
> I’m glad it turned out how it did :D
> 
> and here's our newest nations:  
> Govert Abelen – Netherlands  
> Eduard von Bock - Estonia  
> Toris Lorinaitis - Lithuania  
> Law College Dean - Germania


	11. Chapter 11

“Arthur's not coming to the match,” Peter says it like a question.

It's Saturday morning and they're getting ready to head out.

“He isn't?” Alfred feigns innocence. “Must be busy.” This isn't the first game Arthur missed, after all, but Alfred deems it unnecessary to let Peter know the real reason behind Arthur's absence today.

“Of course he is.” Peter throws his phone on the bed, the rest of his body joining it soon after. “I don't really care if he shows up or not.”

“You should, though,” Alfred tells him, wiping his glasses clean before putting them inside a travel case. His voice echoes against the bathroom tiles, coming out louder to Peter who's in the main room. “There's a different kind of adrenalin when you know he’s there just for you. It makes you want to play better. Give 110%, y’know.”

Alfred leans in closer to the mirror, carefully putting a clear contact into his right eye. He blinks a couple of times to let it settle, then he works on the other eye. It's in the midst of this that Peter asks,

“Do you really think that?”

“Yeah.”

“ _About Arthur_?”

The emphasis distracts Alfred enough to misjudge the force of his own hand. “Ow! Owowowowow!” Alfred hisses at the stinging pain, fanning at his eye as tears start leaking.

“Alfred?” Peter shouts, worried, “What happened?”

“Poked my eye.”

“Oh, crap. Sorry! I shouldn’t have been talking to you while you were on that.”

“It’s fine,” Alfred assures him. He dries the tears and blinks owlishly, letting the thin lens settle over his cornea. Peering into the mirror, he finds everything in focus, especially his reddened cheeks. He slaps both hands over his cheeks -- partly as a means to hide his blush, partly as to get his head right and pay more attention to what he’s saying. That was a damn close call.

The sharp sounds gets Peter sitting up on his bed, more concerned than before. “What was that?”

“Just waking myself up haha!” Alfred pulls on a white shirt, grabbing his glasses’ case before heading out the bathroom. “I guess I was still groggy. Do my eyes look weird?”

“I’m more concerned about the hand marks on your face,” Peter informs him.

“Well, ignore _that_. I feel like I’m squinting too much.”

“Not really. Your left eye is a bit watery, though.”

Alfred wipes at it with the collar of his t-shirt then blinks a couple more times. “Better?”

Peter nods. “You were out real late yesterday. Maybe that’s why you’re still in zombie mode?”

“Ugh, you’re probably right. It’s that project for Abelen’s class. The new modifications seriously messed with our initial programming and we couldn’t get anything to work! We threw the towel down around midnight, slept on it then we’re getting back to work today. I’d probably head there after the game.” Shrugging, Alfred sits on his bed and puts the case in his duffel bag. He checks that he’s got everything he needs; it will be impossible to double-back later since they’ll be the visiting team.

Peter observes him, unable to shake the feeling that something is off with his roommate. Alfred didn’t return to their dorm until Monday evening after football practice. There’s a long apology in Peter’s inbox excusing his prolonged absence -- involving Matthew and brotherly stuff Peter is so not jealous of. He had been following Alfred’s updates on social media the entire weekend but it would have been nice to talk about it in detail afterwards, get some dirt on Arthur and the like. Peter maintains he doesn’t care about missing some stupid musical. He wasn’t at all jealous of their fancy Italian lunch, either. Alfred promised to make it up to him the next day (which he did) but Peter couldn’t remember Alfred being so glum while cooking. Even the food _tasted_ sad, though he was smart enough not to mention it. A side-effect of being exposed to Arthur’s ridiculously posh lifestyle, perhaps? Alfred has been evasive whenever Peter asked him how the weekend went, never giving any detailed answers, which leads Peter to his conclusion.

“Say, uh, are you and Arthur still on a tiff?”

The shuffling sounds quiet and Alfred looks up at him confused. He looks younger without his glasses. “Um, no?”

“Really?” Peter cocks his head to one side. “Because you’ve both been pretty dodgy this past week.”

“W-We were?” Alfred looks away, the handprints on his cheeks burning red. “I don’t know about ‘we’ -- I mean, him, Arthur, but, uh, I was definitely not dodgy, nope.”

“You so are,” Peter insists, reminding Alfred of Feliks for a second. “Seriously, if you’re too nice to tell him to buzz off I’ll do it. I know how insufferable he can be.”

“You really don't need to go that far,” Alfred sends him a reassuring smile. He doesn’t like how Peter talks about Arthur but it’s not like he can refute it. He only knows a limited side of Arthur, after all, but he _has_ met the less polished side of him… well, part of it, at least. “I mean, it’s normal to have misunderstandings.”

“So you two did fight!” Peter interjects, he knew it had to be something like that.

“Fight is a strong word,” Alfred quickly backtracks. “What’s important is we made up!” His phone rings as if on cue, a message from Arthur that he quickly opens. Alfred’s smile widens, showing off the screen to Peter. “He just messaged, see! He says good luck on the game.”

Peter can’t deny what’s in front of him. He inadvertently notes that the last message before the current one was dated a full week prior; saying that Arthur is on his way to pick him up. Alfred has retracted his phone and is quickly typing a reply, looking way too happy. Peter hates to be the snoopy kind of roommate but it’s hard not to notice Alfred’s shifting moods; that and how he always comes to Arthur’s defense on most matters. There’s something going on and he’s going to find out.

 

**THANK YOU!!! :D :D :D :D**

Not a minute has passed before he gets a reply. Arthur doesn’t have a great fondness for emojis but it’s a relief to be able to talk to Alfred again. At a distance, of course. Alfred had assigned his own contact photo on Arthur’s phone. Arthur finds himself staring at it and smiling. He shakes his head to clear the thought, putting his phone at the far corner of his desk to keep it from distracting him any further.

Arthur is still wrapping his mind about their… situation. He can’t imagine what prompted Alfred to kiss him but (after the initial shock and the proper confession that’s been made) Arthur can’t say that he’s offended. It’s flattering… rather, Arthur feels like he should be flattered.

Alfred is handsome, there’s no doubt about it. He has a charming personality, outgoing and amicable. He can be hard-headed, yes, but Arthur isn’t guilt-free on that count, either. Arthur finds joy when engaging him, in sharing experiences, and spending time together. It’s not a crime to enjoy Alfred’s company -- So what if he even sought him out specifically? So what if he bought him clothes, and food, and textbooks? Those were necessities! -- he can’t recall ever crossing any line to imply romantic interest in Alfred.

Of course, it’s all he can think about _now_. He can’t even sit on his own damn couch without thinking of Alfred kissing him there.

It’s frustrating.

He hasn’t been in a relationship in years. Everything about this seems so new, intriguing, and so very, very… wrong.

 

Arthur has a list of reasons why they can’t be together. It starts with the most obvious age gap between them; for all of Arthur’s limited dating history, he can’t ever recall seeing someone so much younger than him. Alfred is 23 now, it hardly makes Arthur a cradle-robber, but nearly a decade between them still feels like he’s pushing it.

The second point being that Alfred is a student at the University which pays a good portion of Arthur’s salary. W University and Allied Legal Corp. are tied closely together; plenty of the University’s alumnus are employed by the law firm which in turn serve to represent and advise the school on legal matters. Arthur is mostly involved with the College of Law but it still puts him in a position of power over Alfred and he’s way too good at his job not to know that it could cause a conflict of interests should the higher ups become aware.

(Personally, Arthur thinks it ridiculous. He’s a got a whole folder of students’ résumés at his desk right now and he’s not the least bit interested in any of them save for their grades.)

Thirdly, and this is the part Arthur is most hesitant about, Alfred is Peter’s roommate. Peter obviously idolizes the guy and he has been very vocal about Arthur always sticking his nose in his business. At the beginning, Arthur kept civil because he was out to scrutinize the guy who’d be rooming with his brother, make sure he was up to snuff, and all that. Turns out Alfred went above expectations. They had established an easy rapport early on and their friendship blossomed beautifully, naturally. Peter must have noticed they were getting too chummy, he’s been telling Arthur off more and more frequently but Arthur paid him no heed. Alfred never seemed to mind having him around and Arthur used that excuse to keep an eye on his brother. Then, somehow, his eyes strayed, drawn towards sweet laughter and sunny dispositions.

Arthur groans, burying his face in his hands. Listen to him waxing poetic. _Ugh_. What would Peter say if he knew? What would his parents think? And don’t even get him started on his older brothers. They still haven't forgiven him for keeping that one fling a secret. It was designed to fail from the start, he reasoned, no use to let his nosy siblings in on it. Their separation was not borne out of neglect from either party (Arthur is a perfectly suitable romantic partner, he’ll have you know) but because it went exactly as planned... Well, mostly as planned. Arthur learned that things would inevitably get out of hand when emotions are involved but this isn't like that, this is a chance for a new beginning.

Alfred’s proposal is promising, truly, but Arthur wants to make sure that he is ready for it himself.

 

It’s late in the afternoon when he gets another message from Alfred. Arthur puts down his pen and the annotated résumé he’d been working on. Ramona had forwarded him the Dean’s recommended candidates for the internship program yesterday.  He figured he could work on it over the weekend since he wasn’t going anywhere. Arthur is down to the last two of the lot and he swore he’d get this finished in one sitting but Alfred is always a welcome distraction.

**WE WON!!!**

Arthur sits back, smiling. There’s palpable excitement in just two words, could almost imagine the way Alfred’s eyes shine as if he were right in front of him and not miles away.

**_Congratulations! Headed on to the finals, then?_ **

Alfred’s replies fast.

**Not yet!  
** **Haha  
** **Semis are in 2wks n THEN we go 2 finals  
** **If we win :\**

Arthur subconsciously mimics the frowning emoticon tacked at the end. He types, **_Of course, you’ll win. If you give your best effort, then you’re already a winner._ **

**Thanks Art :”)  
** **Peter sez we won bec u weren't here but i think he just misses u**

**_Did you miss me?_ ** Arthur has typed the question before he knows it. He stares at it and feels himself blush. Bloody hell. He’s the one who insisted on some distance as he sorts his own feelings, a fat lot of good it will do if he starts _flirting_ already. Arthur deletes the entire line and stares at the empty slate, suddenly unsure how to go on. **_I could come to the next game?_ **

Alfred takes some time to reply, making Arthur wonder if he should have sent the original message after all. He takes a sip from the teacup sitting by, grimacing at the lukewarm drink.

**Really?!?! That wud b awesome!  
** **I mean  
** **If ur not busy n all  
** **Or or u can just catch us at finals? :D**

Arthur feels odd reading this. Is Alfred telling him to adjust to his schedule? Granted, Arthur rarely has anything to do on the weekends (and Alfred knows that) but what difference would it make, seeing one game over the other? As he ponders this, the message is bumped up as another one comes in.

**I'll be super motivated 2 play if ur there**

The pessimist in him is silenced, overcome by a rush of emotion that has Arthur biting on his tongue. Surely, Alfred doesn’t mean it that way. Arthur has very limited knowledge of the game that he’s easy enough to impress. He doesn’t need Alfred going all sweet on him like that… and yet it thrills him. Arthur inhales a calming breath, thinking himself rather silly swooning over such a thing. If this is how he reacts to innocent text messages, he’d be totally hopeless when they’re finally face to face. **_Very well. I’ll clear my schedule._ **

Alfred replies with an army of happy emojis.

 

“And what’s gotten you all smiley over there?”

Slender arms drape around Alfred’ shoulders, the warm press of a body at his back brings along a sugary sweet fragrance.

“E-Emma!” Alfred quickly hides his phone, eyeing the cheer captain who’s pressed against him cheek to cheek.

“It’s rare that you join us for post-game chow these days,” Emma laments. “But when you do, your eyes are glued to your phone!”

“Sorry! It was important but I’m done now,” Alfred smiles but Emma doesn’t budge.

“More important than food?” she gasps, big green eyes jumping from Alfred’s face to the plate set in front of him.

“I - I was just letting the food cool off, don’t wanna burn my tongue, you know…”

Emma nods, understanding. “Ohh, I totally get that. Always happens to me, too!”

Alfred just wishes she wasn’t all pressed up against him doing that. He can feel her foundation rubbing off his cheek.

“Well, would you look at the happy couple!” someone shouts, followed by whistles and cheers. Alfred looks around and finds everyone staring in his direction.

“Aw c’mon guys. You know we’re not…”

“Not what?”

“We’re just friends, right, Emma?”

“Yup,” Emma readily agrees, finally extracting herself from the quarterback. “Alfred here is a good boy!”

Alfred flinches when a hand lands atop his head. Petting him. “ _Emma!_ ”

“I’m serious,” Emma grins, getting a chorus of laughter from around the table. “He finally ditched his secret lover to hang with us, so all of you better play nice.”

“ _Lover?!_ ” Alfred blanches. The way Emma said it made it sound so dirty, so… risque. _And who even calls their S.O. ‘lover’ anyway?_

“Ooooh…”

_Oh god, what if Peter overhears? What if he thinks --_ Alfred tries to find his roommate but the place is packed and everyone’s wearing the same colors.

“Okay, that’s enough,” a clear, mirthful voice cuts through. Alfred turns towards David who’s seated beside him. “Emma, if you want to join our table, you only have to ask. No need to harass poor Alfred.”

“I’m not harassing him, Davie,” Emma pouts cutely.

“No but this is why your brother has it out for me,” Alfred tells her.

“Louie?” Emma blinks. “But he’s an angel!” She puts a hand to her chest. “He plays the violin, you know.”

“Not _that_ brother, the professor one,”

“Oh, you mean Gov? Well, he does have a scary face,” Emma giggles. “But he’s super sweet once you get to know him.”

“I’d really just rather pass his class.”

“Al, you’re taking Abelen?” one of the linebackers across the table asks. A fellow engineering major, he realizes.

“Yup, best and worst decision of my academic career,” Alfred says. “No offense,” he adds to Emma who has squeezed herself onto the bench on his other side.

“Eh,” is all she says, making a grab for the basket of potato wedges.

“He’s super hard to impress,” his teammate continues. “We followed all his suggestions until the end product was so far from our original design. The kicker is that by the time we got through all the mods, fucking thing doesn’t even work anymore.”

“Oh my god, that’s exactly where we are.” Alfred leans closer, intrigued. “What did you guys do?”

 

He heads straight to Thaksin’s room once they get back, checking the progress made in his absence. They go over Abelen’s notes and suggestions, picking out the ones that align with their project’s main purpose and setting aside the miscellaneous items. They brainstorm through dinner and agree to continue work on Monday since their class time has been dedicated to project work and they weren’t required to come in.

Sunday starts with slaving through his readings. Alfred stays in his room with Peter, who has his own papers to complete and is studiously doing so. In the afternoon, unwilling to face another paragraph of text, Alfred declares break time. They head to the rec room and join the other dormers in friendly competition over console games. Peter teams up with Raivis, taking on Alfred and another guy. Their Best ouf of 3 match turns into a Best of 5, then Best of 7 until the other guys complain and they’re forced to give up the controls. That Raivis kid is tiny but he packs a punch.

 

The last stretch of the semester comes upon them in a cold breeze; bringing with it the holiday season. Buntings and baubles decorate the dorm as the students' fashion double in layers.

Alfred is especially grateful for the animanga club's kotatsu table. He's not really a fan of cold weather, preferring the summer's warmth that lets him run around in open fields.

Mei’s laptop is at the center of the table, playing a _shoujo_ anime from the 90’s that Bich apparently has never watched.

(“How could you?” Mei cried, clutching Bich by the arm. “Utena is a classic!”  
“I’m… sorry?”  
“I will not stand for this. We are watching it right now!")

Alfred has only heard of it himself but he doesn’t feel the need to point it out, more concerned with other pressing matters. He appreciates the action of the show but since he dropped by in the middle of their marathon, it’s hard follow what’s going on. Herakles, on the other hand, is surprisingly wide awake.

“What time is Kiku coming by again?” Alfred asks when the credits start playing at the end of the current episode. (Mei refuses to skip the ending songs, or the opening songs, too, for that matter.)

Herakles tilts his head, thinking out loud. “Hmm… Four? Maybe? Why?”

“I, um, borrowed some blurays from him.”

“Hmm… What blurays?”

Alfred colors slightly. “I dunno… I just asked him for a bunch that could help me, you know?”

“Help with what...?”

“Y-You know…” Alfred puts up a hand, hiding his next words from the others. _Arthur_ , he mouths, hoping that Herakles would get it.

Olive eyes blink slowly. “Ah.”

Alfred grins, relieved that he doesn’t have to explain further.

“I have magazines for that, too,” Herakles says. “I can lend you Sweet XXX and--”

“Not those!” Alfred rejects, making an X mark with his arms. “I don’t want your porn!”

“But--”

“No thank you!”

In the resulting silence, Alfred realize he’s been shouting. Mei and Bich are side-eyeing him, judging him for his outburst.

“Um… That wasn’t…”

“Tsk,” Bich clicks her tongue dismissively. “Boys.” She and Mei return to watching their show.

Alfred sends a glare at Herakles but the older guy has his full attention on the screen as well. He’s left to wallow in shame until Kiku arrives. Alfred hurries over to him, wondering if this was the right move after all.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Kiku apologizes. “I just remembered a very important manga that might help so I went back to my dorms to get it.”

“Aw shucks, Kiku, you didn’t have to. I mean, I probably won’t have much time to go through them all.”

“Oh.” Kiku drops onto the empty couch.

“I-I mean, not right now, since, school is busy,” Alfred appeases, carefully seating himself on the other end. “I’ll probably watch them over holiday break, if it’s okay with you to lend them to me for so long.”

“It’s fine as long as you take care of them.” Kiku unzips his backpack, revealing the boxes held within.

“That’s… a lot.”

“I chose the ones I thought you would most relate to,” Kiku explains. “And I wasn’t sure of your preference so I got--”

“Okay!” Alfred seizes the bag, gripping it shut as to keep its secrets. “Thanks, man. I owe you big time. I’ll just take this now and, uh, go!”

“Alfred-kun, sit down, I am not done.”

Alfred’s butt reacquaints with the sofa, blue eyes blinking wide behind his glasses. “Sorry,” he squeaks, uncertain in the face of Kiku who just raised his voice at him. He really needs to stop high-tailing it out of every situation that makes him uncomfortable.

“I understand that you are embarrassed with the topic at hand but please allow me to finish,” Kiku levels him with a look. Alfred breaks his gaze for a moment, motioning towards the other club members who could overhear. “No need to worry about them.”

Alfred is far from comforted by that. “Herakles literally offered to lend me porn magazines just now. We haven’t held hands yet!” His voice lowers to a hiss,“It’s too early to think about doing those kinds of stuff.”

“BL is not porn, Alfred-kun, let me clear this up for you now,” Kiku replies, just as ardent. “And while there may be sexual overtones in the titles I’m lending you, please keep an open mind on the nature of the relationships presented. Learn from them as that is why you asked to borrow from me in the first place.”

”I know that,” Alfred mutters, somewhat cowed by Kiku’s impassioned declarations. He stares at the backpack in his hands. “I guess I’m just… really nervous.”

“It’s fine, Alfred-kun.”

“He hasn’t even said ‘yes’, like, officially but if he’s considering it, then I must have a pretty strong chance, right?”

“That is correct.”

Alfred smiles, a little more self-assured.

“I have a recommended order of viewing them, if you’d like to hear it,” Kiku proposes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s taking me a while to ease back into this verse sorry..
> 
> Also I've taken out the whole slew of characters in the tags bec it was getting too crowded... and here's some more peeps  
> Emma Abelen – Belgium  
> Louie Abelen – Luxembourg  
> *Netherlands is like way older than them :3  
> Raivis Galante - Latvia  
> Mei - Taiwan  
> Bich - Vietnam
> 
> Kiku’s BL rec list -- What Did You Eat Yesterday?, Gakuen Heaven, Hitorijime My Hero, and more~


	12. Chapter 12

“Remind me,  _ how _ did we get into this mess?”

“The CFO at the women’s center ran off with the money they raised at the crafts bazaar,” Cameron answers steadily in the face of Arthur’s ire. “She claimed to take charge in depositing their earnings to the bank but she never came back.”

“This should be under the Criminal Division,” Arthur says, flipping through the folder that had been presented to him.

“It is, but Atty. Mkondo sent me to get your insights on the matter since the we’re in partnership with the center.”

“That we are.” Arthur’s frown runs deep. “So. What has your team got on this?”

Cameron goes into detail -- the CFO’s background, the family members they questioned, even the police’s involvement in tracking her down. He passes on the woman’s written confession, how the money has already been spent for her son’s hospital expenses. It’s a touching story and the director of the women’s center said that they’d rather not press charges but the fact remains that she had taken advantage of her position and there are due consequences.

Arthur jots down his recommended course of action and sends Cameron off.

“If there’s anything else you need, just shoot me an email.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Cameron exits with a smile, greeting Michelle who looks up on hearing the door open.

“That was fast,” she starts in surprise.

“Well, I answered all his questions,” Cameron replies, shrugging. “He seems to be in a hurry, though.”

“Lunch meeting with Atty. Bondevik and other Directors.” Michelle turns her chair around to make conversation easier. “Knowing them, it’s going to take all afternoon.”

“Yikes.”

“Gives us time to plan the Year-End party, though.” 

Cameron perks up. “Oh right, hey what date is that? I’ll be flying home by the 21st.”

“Almost everyone is,” Michelle says, wry. “We’re looking at the 18th or 19th.”

“Sounds good.”

“Do you have any suggestions? Us secretaries are having a meeting while the bosses are out.”

“Nah, I trust you. Make it fun, yeah?”

“Sure, we’ll think of something.” 

Once Cameron walks away, Michelle finishes the email she was supposed to send. A pop up on the screen reminds her of the Directors’ meeting. Michelle calls up the driver, making sure he’s already in the carpark before she goes to fetch Arthur.

“Sir?” Michelle enters after knocking on the door. “The driver is here to take you to your 12 o’clock.”

“Driver?” The clacking of keyboard keys stall as Arthur lifts eyes from his laptop. “I thought we were having it at Meeting Room 3?”

“Atty. Rouzier made reservations,” Michelle explains. “The meeting will be at the Nouveau Monde.”

“That’s a restaurant, isn’t it?” Arthur frowns.

“Yes, sir.”

“And Lukas approved?”

“I would assume so. Atty. Rouzier emailed us about it.”

Arthur  _ tsk _ s and resumes typing. “Let me just finish this and I’ll be heading off.”

“You’ll be carpooling with Attys. Bondevik, Rouzier, and Aveiro. They should be heading down as well. James will be your driver.”

 

“Arthur, so nice of you to join us!” Ramona grins from where she’s already seated in the car.

“It’s a mandatory meeting,” Arthur snips, closing the door as he settles in. “Any particular reason you decided to drag us all out of the office?” He’s expecting a call from Wang Industries. Usually, he has Michelle to receive them in his absence but she’s in her own meeting this time. Bugger. There’s really no harm in letting it go to voicemail but his psyche itches at the thought of pending work while he’s out gallivanting.

“A change of scenery would do us good,” Ramona replies, undaunted by his foul mood. “I just thought it would be more productive if we weren’t confined in those drab old meeting rooms.”

“Is there a problem with their design?” a mellow, almost monotonous, voice asks from the passenger seat. 

Ramona’s eyes widen, lips pursing shut. She looks to Arthur for backup but he averts his gaze, pretending to whistle. 

“I didn’t mean it like that, Lu,” Ramona quickly appeases. “The meeting rooms are fine--”

“I do think it’s time to freshen up the upholstery,” Lukas Bondevik, CEO of Allied Legal Corp., inclines his head just so, looking over at the pair. “My husband will be back in town next week. I’ll bring him around to see what can be improved.”

“Where has Mathias been?” Arthur deems to ask. “Haven’t seen him around recently.”

“He’s been tapped as consultant for a Scandinavian furniture brand that’s looking to break into the world market.” Lukas says with his usual closed-off demeanor, it takes practice to see the pride that’s in his eyes. “They’ve got a catalogue out right in time for the holidays. I believe I had them distributed at the office.”

“Oh yes,” Ramona recalls browsing through one of the said catalogues. “I put in an order for wine racks. Very stylish designs, I must say.”

“Thank you for your patronage,” Lukas smiles.

There’s a knock on the window. They all turn to see Ronaldo waving at them, Arthur unlocks the door to let him in.

“Hey, sorry to keep everyone waiting! I was at the wrong carpark,” Ronaldo admits, sheepish. “Shingirayi and the others already set off.”

Seeing his passengers all complete, their driver pulls out of his parking space and gets going.

“You mean you were running your mouth again,” Ramona teases.

“It was work-related.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I was contributing to the Year-End party planning,” Ronaldo proclaims with a wink. 

Arthur sits back as the two continue their charade. There’s an email from Peter that’s been sitting in his inbox since that morning. He has held off from responding, laughably paranoid of a simple dinner invite. Peter said he’s only asking because Alfred is over at his classmate’s place laboring over some project (the one for Abelen, Arthur assumes, having heard every complaint Alfred had about it before) and it would be a hassle to get dinner by himself.

Normally, Arthur would jump at the chance to spend time with his younger brother, but given the current circumstances… Well, it’s a good thing Alfred won’t be there. He could act normal around Peter. They need to sort their schedule for their trip back to London over the holidays, anyway. Arthur is in the middle of replying when Ramona strikes again.

“Who are you texting, Arthur~?”

Startled, Arthur whisks his phone away, shooting her a glare. “My brother.”

“Your  _ brother _ .” Ramona echoes, brows arched and sly.

Arthur doesn’t like that tone one bit. Ramona’s a decent woman but he can’t help being suspicious of her keen interest on the matter. He prefers to keep his private and professional life separate but when he saw Alfred that day, he just couldn’t  _ not _ go to him. In hindsight, he should have made certain that Ramona had gone away before he rushed to accost Alfred. All it took was one look in those big, rueful blue eyes and his priorities had gone all askew. So now Ramona’s trying to wheedle every bit of information out of him but Arthur refuses to be intimidated. He’s done nothing wrong, after all.

“And how is Peter doing?” Ronaldo asks brightly. “You should invite him to  the year end party.”

“I will not.” Arthur crosses his arms, ruffled. “It’s a corporate function.”

“Aw, come on, Arthur. The more the merrier!”

“You just want to bring Tonio,” Ramona accuses. 

Ronaldo’s smile only grows. “But of course! Then Tonio will bring Lovi and I  _ know _ you like Lovi.” Ramona hums, not denying it. “I could even get Gil to be our barista, he’s got the best beers in town. And then Liz could come, too, and Fr--”

A pointed cough interrupts him. Arthur’s frown is sharp as a dagger. “If you want to host a get-together of your  _ peers _ kindly don’t mix it up with our office party.”

Ronaldo blinks mutely, wondering if he’d said anything wrong to warrant Arthur’s ire. Ramona, on the other hand, appears sympathetic.

“Leave the planning to the secretaries,” Lukas says in the ensuing silence. “This will be our final board meeting of the year and I expect comprehensive presentations.”

“Yes, sir,” the three in the backseat chorus.

 

Lukas is not disappointed. Shingirayi Mkondo starts them off with a 2% increase in their winning cases under her criminal law division; acquittals and convictions combined.Rajan  Atish Chatterjee, Executive Director of Civil Law, reports that 80% of the lawsuits under his division have been resolved. Of the 20% carrying over to the next year, 5% is headed for a positive resolution in their clients’ favor. Ronaldo’s report is more sobering, followed by Ramona’s overview on their client pool, the upgrade done to intelligence database, and finally the W University’s latest batch of interns. When Arthur’s turn comes, he skips the upcoming internship as Ramona already covered it. He focuses instead on their biggest acquisition this year -- the Wang account.

Lukas listens attentively, giving praise where it is due as well as pointers on how to sustain or improve their outputs moving forward. The last report is from Finance and it is similarly satisfactory. 

“Suffice to say it has been a fruitful year for us,” he says, looking at each of them in turn. By this point, the busy restaurant has settled down, lunchtime diners having left with full bellies hours ago. They can barely see anyone through the frosted glass windows of the private room they rented to hold their meeting. The smell of caffeine is faint, mellowed by the cool air conditioning as they finish off cups of tea and coffee to help their meal settle.

“There’s one last thing I need to announce before we adjourn.”

Ronaldo sighs, loud and relieved. “Let’s hear it then, boss.”

Lukas quirks a muted smile. “Beginning next year, we will be having a dedicated branch to serve our international clientele.”

Everyone is suddenly on the alert for this could only mean one thing -- a promotion. A shiver of anticipation sweeps through the table. Then Lukas turns to the man on his right. “Arthur, congratulations. With your unerring work ethic and the expertise you possess, you have been elected to lead this new division.”

The surprise quickly wears off and Arthur accepts with a smile amidst his colleagues’ applause.

“Given your new role, someone would have to take over the directorship of Grants and Community Partnerships,” Lukas continues. “Mona.”

Ramona grins wide, flushing with glee. “Me?”

“You’ve done exceedingly well in handling our internship agreement with W University. This new assignment will put you in charge of all our dealings with them, including being legal adviser to the University board. What do you think?”

“It would be an honor, Lu.”

“Very good. Now, Arthur, you might be expected to fly out to meet with clients every now and then.”

“I’m prepared for that,” Arthur says, readily. He’s one of the younger Directors and he’s sure that  _ that _ played a part in their deliberation of who to put in charge of the international clientele. 

“You will also-” Lukas holds his words for moment, going for a dramatic effect “-get a nice new plaque on your desk.” They all laugh at this, though Arthur barely cracks a grin. “Now, Mona, you may submit your chosen candidates to succeed you by next week.”

“Well, I already know who’s fit for the job, Lu.” Ramona folds her hands together primly. “I think Basch would be perfect!”

Hearing that name gets the rest of them tensing up for just a fraction. Basch Zwingli has quite a reputation. Tenacious and efficient would be the kindest way to describe the man.

Lukas nods. “If you’re certain then that’s good. I still require a recommendation letter in order to make it formal and official.”

“Of course. I’ll get on that right away!”

“We’ll make the official announcements at the year-end party but you may start turning over your responsibilities when it is convenient.”

* * *

The implications of his promotion doesn’t even hit Arthur until he clocks out that day. It’s only a quarter past five, way earlier than he’s used to but he’s meeting Peter for dinner and can’t afford to be late. The elevator delivers him to the basement carpark and he steps out, phone against his ear. It takes a few rings before the other end picks up.

“H-Hello!”

Arthur stops, confused. That is  _ not  _ the voice he was expecting.

“Arthur? You there?”

“Alfred…?” he hazards.

“Yeah, h-hi…”

“Hello, er… are you alright?”

“Me? Oh, yeah! I’m good!”

Brows furrow in suspicion. “Then why do you sound like you’re out of breath?”

“Do I? Hahaha… I just got off my bike,” Alfred explains. “I’m on my way to football practice.”

“Ah.” Makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is why Arthur’s face has gone all hot just listening to him  _ breathe _ . They’ve been emailing regularly but actually speaking to him isn’t the same. A part of him feels silly dreading verbal conversation, especially now that he’s got him on the phone and all he wants to do is to prolong the call. Fumbling for a topic, he goes with “Semifinals is this weekend isn’t it?”

“Ah. Yeah! Coach Ox is working us hard, the other team is like super aggressive on the offense. But Davie’s come up with a solid plan and we’re confident we can keep them in check.”

“Davie?” Arthur is sure Alfred has mentioned him before but right now Arthur only has a vague feeling of dislike for the guy. “He’s the, uh…”

“Team Captain. Great guy. He’s in Bio just like Matt.”

“Hm.” Arthur resumes walking, headed to his reserved space. “Is Matthew doing well?”

“He’s okay, a little more stressed than usual since hockey season is close. I’ll tell him you asked about him.”

“Er, no need for that.” The car unlocks and Arthur almost bumps his head on the roof going in. “I’m just…”

“Just… what?” Alfred prompts.

“I just wanted to know how you are,” Arthur says, settling in and locking the door, glad that no one had witnessed his blunder just now. He puts his briefcase on the passenger seat.

“You don’t usually call, though… b-but I’m not complaining!” Alfred rushes before his voice goes quiet. “It’s nice… hearing your voice.”

“Oh.” Arthur cannot tell him he just dialed wrong now. He meant to call Atish and ask about that curry place he recommended before but his hands must’ve automatically gone for Alfred’s contact details instead. In any case, he’s not exactly lying when he says, “I feel the same way.”

Alfred sucks in an audible breath and Arthur gets butterflies in his stomach. The words come across as especially meaningful. Trepidation has Arthur gripping the steering wheel. It feels like he’s just made a huge leap without knowing where he’d land. 

“I… want to see you soon, Art.”

The confession comes with a niggling question, a reminder. Arthur hasn’t forgotten; how could he when thoughts of Alfred fill his mind whenever it turns idle? He finds that he doesn’t really mind the age gap after all, since Alfred doesn’t appear to have any qualms over it. Come next year, he won’t even be personally affiliated with W University. He finds a new level of appreciation for his promotion in that moment. It really couldn’t have come at a better time. All that’s left is Peter. Arthur can’t say he’s looking forward to having that conversation but maybe he doesn’t have to figure that one out on his own? 

“Soon,” he promises.

“Okay.”

Arthur can just about picture Alfred’s smile, one of the quiet ones that always has Arthur smiling back. He turns his key in the ignition, the engine purring softly as if in approval of what has transpired.

“Are you in your car?” Alfred asks. “You’re not driving while talking to me, are you?”

“I’m still parked, I’ll be heading off to dinner in a moment.”

“Dinner?”

“With Peter. He said you wouldn’t be able to cook since you were busy.”

“Oh. Yeah, I have a project to finish. Group work.”

“I hope that goes well for you.”

“Thanks, Art.” Then the line goes muffled for a moment, voices sounding from Alfred’s end. “Hey, so...  it was nice talking to you but I,er, should probably head to practice.”

“Of course. I’m sorry for having held you up.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Alfred tells him. “Let’s talk again soon, okay?”

“Okay. Goodbye, Alfred.”

“Bye!”

Just before the line falls dead, Arthur makes out a brief smacking sound.

* * *

Peter is chatty throughout dinner. He’s mostly bragging about how he’s on top of his schoolwork and being opinionated on the on-going drama in the cheer squad -- Ces having a row with her twin brother Zdeno which somehow led to the members picking sides.

“It’s gotten pretty ugly,” Peter says, adding more curry to his plate, practically drowning the rice already on it. “But we’re all careful not to let Coach Tino in on it. He’s too nice, you know? The scary kind of nice you don’t want to make angry.”

Arthur frowns at the excessive serving on his brother’s plate. He never eats that much when Arthur cooks curry for him. “You’d do best not to get roped into those petty fights.”

“But Zdeno’s my friend! And besides, Ces was being a real b--”

“Watch your language,” Arthur warns.

“Buzzkill.” Peter smirks. “I was gonna say buzzkill.”

“Sure you were,” Arthur says drily.

“Anyway, what’s up with you?”

The unusual question makes Arthur pause. “Me?”

“Yeah. You always ask about me but you never share what’s going on at your end.” 

Arthur puts his spoon down, somewhat bewildered. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you… My work is mostly classified information.” 

“Something  _ outside _ of work, then,” Peter prods, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He’s a man on a mission here. “Surely you’ve got other interests.”

Arthur thinks of Alfred and stomps down the blush that rises. There is nothing to tell; at least, not  _ yet _ . Other interests? Going out drinking with Ronaldo isn’t anything to brag about… but, oh, he did finish some doilies last weekend. He’s rather proud of them but he doubts Peter would find it very impressive. Then again, he did ask so… 

“Alright, prepare to be amazed!” Arthur grins, putting down his utensils so he can use both hands on his phone. “I daresay I’ve really outdone myself this time.” Turning the screen towards Peter, he shows off photo after photo of the lace-trimmed doilies shot from different angles on his coffee table. “Beautiful, aren’t they? I’ll be giving them to mum and dad for Christmas.”

They all look the same to Peter but even he can admire the fine craftsmanship of something handmade. He has plenty of savings and he has already bought gifts for most of his friends and family. And then there’s Alfred. On Arthur’s phone.

Peter blinks and the photo changes but it’s still him -- them, rather, his brother and Alfred -- and Arthur is still talking about crocheting, unaware. He  _ should _ probably tell him about it but the photos tell a more interesting story than threads and needlework.

There’s a photo of them with the Annie backdrop; a photo of Alfred with fries sticking out his mouth and a spread of McDonald’s food in front of him; Arthur standing like a royal guard in front of a fountain; a close up of both of them before the same fountain with Arthur mid-laugh and Alfred’s hand extending past the frame; same angle with Arthur not smiling.

Peter looks up at his brother now, bragging about his hobby but his smile isn’t quite the same as with that selfie.

The photo stream continues, showing Arthur having drinks with Ronaldo and (Peter supposes) other people at work. He seems to be having fun, as much as his tight-lipped smile can convey, but evidently not on the same level as with his playdate with Alfred.

Come to think of it, Arthur does seem to get along well with Alfred, doesn’t he? Extremely well. He certainly doesn’t mind it when Alfred asks for his take on his assigned readings, even if they are far beyond his professional scope. Alfred is admittedly not booksmart and Arthur gets to flaunt his knowledge, so it’s a win-win situation. Peter hears them bantering from his side of the room where he  _ diligently _ works on his own assignments because he can very well handle them alone, thank you. Not to mention the weekend brunches. Hell, Arthur is practically doting on Alfred like he was another brother. The thought of it makes Peter freeze for a second. Is… Is Alfred a substitute for Peter? Does Arthur  _ like _ Alfred more than him?

 

An extremely close up photo of Ronaldo comes up, cheeks squished together with some guy who looks like his brother and the third person with his middle finger up at the camera.

“Who is  _ that _ ?” Peter asks before he could stop himself, his previous train of thought effectively sidetracked.

Arthur cuts off mid-speech. “Eh, who?” He turns his phone around and alarm registers on his expression. “It’s nobody important,” Arthur says, exiting his gallery and stuffing his phone away at last.

“You keep telling me to mind my manners but you hang out with these prats.”

Arthur opens his mouth to retort but no words come out. He huffs, deflating. “ _ Moving forward _ ,” he says pointedly. “What’s your finals schedule? I need to arrange our flight back to Winchester.”

Changing topics, eh? Peter smirks, knowing he’d won a point over his brother there. “I’ve got exams until Thursday morning.”

“I see, then Friday should be ideal,” Arthur notes. “I think Michelle mentioned the year-end party to be on Wednesday.”

“Who’s Michelle?”

“My secretary, and  _ don’t  _ speak with your mouth full, Peter.”

This time, Peter does roll his eyes. His gut tells him he almost had something there, but now he can’t even remember what it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Kirkland family home is in Winchester - the previous capital city of England. It also has The University of Winchester (formerly King Alfred's College) *wink*
> 
> New peeps:  
> Shingirayi Mkondo - Zimbabwe  
> Rajan Atish Chatterjee - India
> 
> And I've mentioned them before but to reiterate  
> Ces - Czech  
> Zdeno - Slovakia
> 
> they're ~kind of~ friends with Peter on the cheer squad 
> 
> I wish I had more for them to do..


	13. Chapter 13

An air horn blares deafeningly, supported by a chorus of voices. Alfred’s ears are ringing, the cacophony locked inside his helmet. The crushing weight piled on top of him slowly eases, a familiar blue-gloved hand reaches out to him and he takes it, gasping for air. It smells of sweat and grass and leather. A couple more hands help his beaten body up, teammates and opponents alike. There are referees standing nearby ensuring that nobody is seriously injured.

Somehow, Alfred already knows the results before he even looks up. His aching muscles tell him so, as does the heavy drape of his teammate’s arm across his shoulders. He leans against the other guy, clapping his back, and they make their way to their end of the field to regroup.

Behind them, their opponents are jumping and cheering, screaming out their victory for the world to hear.

 

David’s right forearm is wrapped with bandages, secured to his chest with a sling, but his face shows no pain, no remorse. He’s all smiles when he tells them it’s the best game they’ve ever played, praising everyone’s performance, acknowledging the other team’s skills. He thanks Coach Oxenstierna for molding them into athletes that their University and themselves can be proud of, promising with a joke that he would personally make sure the next captain will be up to par. In the meantime, why don’t they all have some dinner?

 

Alfred puts on his glasses, a tired and unsmiling face stares back at him from the darkened screen of his phone. Thin cracks spread like spider webs over one side, borne from an ill-guided attempt to appease the emotions bubbling inside of him. He could have done more. _God_ . They were so close, _so close_ to bringing the elusive championship home and yet they’re going to return empty-handed. This was the exact same level that they were eliminated at last year and Alfred had been devastated then, now… Now he wants to be mad but the feeling is overwhelmed by fatigue.

“Al? You still in here?”

Droplets of water slip off the ends of his hair, head snapping up at hearing his name. He finds David leaning on the locker room’s door. Alfred blanches and quickly gathers his things. “Sorry Captain! I’ll be right out!”

“It’s okay to feel down, Al, but it’s bad to keep a bus full of starving kids waiting.” David holds the door open, walking side by side with Alfred towards the parking lot.

“I just can’t believe it’s all over,” Alfred says. “One loss and we’re out of the running. I really thought this was our year.”

“Well, look on the bright side,” David grins. “At least we can focus on finals next week. The school finals, mind.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Oh, well, how about this?” David bumps their shoulders together. “Your number one fan is waiting outside.”

Alfred snorts. He doesn’t like to think himself as popular but there have been incidences where fans asked for his photo and autograph post-game. He’s got a fair number of followers online and he interacts with them on the regular. It’s nice to have that kind of support, but now he wonders what he’s supposed to say to them after losing the game. “You’ve got more fans than I do.” This time, he holds the door open, wary of putting any more strain on his injured Captain.

“Hm, true,” David nods. “But none of my fans drive DB11s.”

“Ye -- wait… What?!”

The parking lot is fairly crowded but it’s impossible not to spot the silver luxury car. A shiver rattles Alfred’s spine. _Arthur is here? Why? And why didn’t he tell him?_

“Oh my god.” Alfred fumbles for his phone, checking to see if he’d missed any e-mails or calls.

“Look at you getting all flustered,” David laughs. “Just a minute ago, you were moping.”

“I didn’t know he was going to be here!”

“Oops.” David covers his mouth with his good hand. “Sorry I ruined your boyfriend’s surprise.”

Alfred gapes at him. “He isn't, well, he’s… not…”

David's eyes go wide. “Really? Wow, sorry man, I just assumed -- I mean, you guys were--” His mouth clamps shut, seeing Alfred's face color up. “ _Really?_ ”

He breathes in and holds it for five seconds, sorting his thoughts before speaking. “Not yet.”

“Oh.”

“I… kind of confessed but…”

“Oho~?”

Alfred ducks his head, scratching at his nape. “He hasn't given his answer yet.”

“Then I wonder why he's here?” David taps a finger on his chin, putting up an insinuating grin.

“Art usually says when he’s coming to a game,” Alfred muses, trying not to read too much into it. He has already had enough disappointment for one day. “Maybe…”

“I think you'd best wait for him to show up,” David suggests.

“You think so?”

“Yeah. Me and the guys will be heading out to eat. I'll text you where we are and you guys can just catch up.”

“Um.”

“Or, you know,” David shrugs. “You can just go on a date.”

“I'm… not really in a dating mood right now,” Alfred mutters.

“Then what _do_ you want?”

 

“Alfred? What… What are you doing here?”

Alfred turns towards the voice and sure enough Arthur is there. He's wearing a thick coat and a hat, cheeks bright red, wide eyes locked on Alfred.

“That's my line.”

Arthur looks rightly guilty coming up to him. “I thought you must've left with your teammates. Your bus is gone.”

“I saw your car,” Alfred says like it's enough of an explanation, almost an accusation. His breath mists in front of his face.

“And you've just been standing there in the cold?” The reprimand is softened with concern. Arthur hurriedly unlocks his car. “Let's talk inside, yes?”

Alfred stuffs his gym bag into the hollow by his feet, efficient and routine. The interior of the car is considerably warmer and his overworked legs find relief in resting on the plush leather seat. He sees Arthur throw his hat to the back seat. Was that supposed to be some disguise? Arthur never needed any disguises before. He worries his bottom lip. “Does Peter know you came here?”

Arthur shakes his head, voice quiet when he replies. “I came to watch you play.”

A sharp inhale makes Alfred's nostrils flare, averting his eyes from Arthur's scrutiny. “I wish you hadn't.”

“And why not? You did well, Alfred.”

“Obviously not well enough.” Alfred barely held back the bite in his words. He hates having anyone see him like this, seeing his failures, seeing anything other than the all-American perfection that he's supposed to be. Maybe he shouldn't have stayed, it might have been better if he went with David and the team, stuffing the hollow feeling in their chests with greasy fast food burgers. But knowing that Arthur is nearby had irreversibly reset his priorities. He chose Arthur, he wanted to see him more than anything and anyone. Alfred’s sullen mood has lifted by just being near him but it's apparently not enough to appease the bitterness that's still so fresh in his psyche.

Silence stews from Arthur's side and Alfred worries he had offended him, talking back like that. He wants to take back the words but his throat has clogged up, eyes welling with salty tears. He hates himself enough, he doesn’t want Arthur hating him, too.

“Did you play alone?” Arthur's question breaks the quiet at last.

“What?” Alfred looks at him in surprise.

“In the game,” Arthur clarifies. “Did you play by yourself?”

“Of course not. It’s a team sport, Arthur.”

“Then is anyone on the team blaming you for the result?”

“No! They would never.”

“So why are you taking on all of the blame?” Arthur frowns. The overhead light gives him a severe expression that doesn't match his calm enunciation. “Are your plays the only ones that mattered?”

“Don't -- Don't put words in my mouth!”

“It's only natural that you're devastated at losing the game but don't ever think that invalidates your whole performance.” Arthur's words resonate in the enclosed space, his level gaze holding Alfred captive. “You have done exceptionally well. The crowd kept chanting your name, and the commentators -- they were all singing praises of you. I was there, Alfred, I heard them. I was _with_ them even though heaven knows I haven't the foggiest idea about football.”

Hearing it makes Alfred snort, smiling just a little; clearing his runny nose for half a breath.

“You may not have won, but it was a damn close game. You delivered your best and supported your team. That isn’t failure.”

Alfred swallows and nods, tears abated for the meantime. Arthur smiles, satisfied, and Alfred tries for a grin, “Okay. I just…when I figured out you were here I felt doubly bad. I didn't want you to see me lose.”

“Nobody goes into a match expecting to lose. And I didn’t expect you to find me but here we are.” Arthur shifts in his seat so he's almost completely sideways. “Can we start the night over?” he asks.

Alfred mimics his position, stiffening for a moment when Arthur's arms come up around him. He loops his own arms around Arthur, completing their embrace. There's a great deal of comfort to be had in feeling the warmth of another body, in being held so tenderly. Alfred squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his face into Arthur's shoulder. Arthur smells nice, _really_ nice, and if not for the awkward positioning of their embrace over the gear shift Alfred would have gladly spent the rest of the night wrapped around him. He pulls back feeling another heartboner swell up in his chest, but this time he's wise enough not to mention it. Instead, his stomach speaks for him.

Arthur chuckles, sitting back properly. “I was just about to ask about dinner. What do you want to eat?”

“Apple pie.” Alfred expects to be reprimanded, to be told to pick dinner first and have dessert later but Arthur readily nods, his only question being ‘Where?’ Alfred isn't exactly familiar with the restaurants here, two towns away from W University, but he knows he can trust the internet gods to lead him right. “I’ll find us a place.” He whips out his phone while Arthur starts the car. There's a message from David telling him that the team is at a pizza parlor. He's texting back, asking if the place serves apple pie, when Arthur exclaims,

“What happened to your phone?”

Suddenly, he feels guilty. He presses send, delaying the moment when he has to admit, “I sort of… got mad… earlier.” Alfred squirms as Arthur's thick brows knit together, creasing his forehead. “It still works perfectly! So you know…” His phone chimes then, announcing David's prompt response. Alfred takes the opportunity to duck away from Arthur's stare. “Davie says the place doesn't serve apple pies.” Alfred snorts, reading out the rest, “Just pizza pies. He thinks he's so funny. Hang on, I'll just Google this.”

Arthur doesn't say anything more about his cracked phone but Alfred can _feel_ the judgment being passed on him.

“I don't usually break things when I'm angry, you know,” he says, tapping on the _I’m feeling lucky_ button. Fifteen minutes later, they're pulling up in front of a café with an array of gingerbread men on the windows.

They get seated immediately and Alfred orders two slices of their apple pie ala mode. Arthur gets a clubhouse sandwich and tea. He has the sandwich cut into fours when it’s served and it's just like old times. That is, if a month or so ago counts as ‘old’. So many things has happened since then but right now -- sitting across Arthur and demanding the second slice of pie that he is holding ransom until Alfred eats the sandwich quarter he'd set in front of him -- it feels like nothing at all has changed. Unless you count the quickening pace of Alfred's heartbeats every time their eyes lock. Which is a good thing! A great thing! Alfred wins back his apple pie, sharing that it's favorite comfort food. Arthur says he likes custard pie better but he eats a bite when Alfred offers.

Traffic is more lenient going back, cutting the two hour drive to just over forty minutes. Alfred connects the aux cord to his phone, his Christmas mix playing in the background as he talks about the upcoming finals week.

“So you’ll be busy all of next week?” Arthur spares him a glance, carefully changing lanes.

“Most likely, I got exams til Friday.”

“Oh. I was hoping we could meet before Peter and I fly out.”

“Going home for the holidays?” The excitement in Alfred's tone flattens when he sees Arthur's frown. “You don't look happy. _Why_ don't you look happy?”

“I’ve got work,” Arthur says. “There’s been an organizational shift and I have important files to turn over.”

“You are such a workaholic.” Alfred shakes his head. “It's time to relax! One full week of freedom!”

“I'd really rather have quiet time, reading. Or knitting. I won't have a moment of peace there. My brothers can be a little… boorish.”

“Boor… like bullies?”

The question makes Arthur pause and smile. “Yes, that, too.”

“Oh. But Peter’s well-behaved.”

“That's because _you're_ there,” Arthur deigns to send an appreciative look at him. “He thinks you're, er, cool. He admires you so he puts on his best behavior.”

Alfred preens just a little. “So how long will you be on holiday?”

“Until the first week of January, I suppose.” Arthur frowns, clearly wishing for his supposed vacation to be cut short. He brakes at the intersection leading into W University, stalled by a red stoplight. “Still have to get Peter all set up for his second semester. Are _you_ going home for the holidays?”

“Probably just for Christmas lunch.” Alfred wrinkles his nose. “Can’t keep Matt from the ice rink too long since hockey season is kicking off. His team’s the defending champion, did you know?”

“I didn’t know. That’s wonderful.”

“Yeah. They’re really…” His gaze slips away, watching the red numbers reflected in the windshield count down. “...something.”

It’s the barely contained sigh that tips Arthur off. Empathy stirs at the dejection he could feel emanating from the young man in his passenger’s seat. “Alfred?”

Alfred startles, suddenly finding Arthur so close, studying him. “W-What is it?”

“Feeling alright?”

The glow of the streetlamps outside illuminate Arthur’s face, adding to the lights from the instrument panel. He looks almost surreal and not the scary kind… more magical… with strobes of color contouring his features. Alfred nods slowly, compelled by the ethereal sight. “I’m… jealous… that hockey season is just starting. They’ve got strong chances for a back-to-back win while over here I’m… I’ve got nothing. My moment has passed, y’know? Matt’s setting aside his TA work to focus on the games. He’ll be juggling his undergrad thesis with that and once he graduates… he told me he wants to get his Master’s, like, how can anyone have all that stuff planned out? I thought this football scholarship was my ticket but now it’s all over and I kind of feel… lost.”

The words hang in the air between them as Alfred heaves another sigh. Tentatively, Arthur puts his hand on his shoulder. He feels Alfred’s body shiver and he waits for him to relax, which Alfred does, smoothing out the tense line of his shoulders. “I didn’t plan on becoming a lawyer,” Arthur eventually says. “When I came to W University, all I cared about was getting away from the pressure of measuring up to my brothers. I wanted to be myself, and in the end that was what really mattered.”

“And what if I don’t like this self?” Alfred lowers his eyes, folding his lips into his mouth as he mulls over Arthur's words. The low hum of the stereo cushions the moment of silence.

He hears his heart beating like a wardrum -- loud, echoing, slow. This isn’t the Alfred he’s used to -- this quiet, insecure thing -- and yet Arthur is drawn to him all the same. His hand moves, not content with just being planted on the edge. "I like you as you are now," Arthur says, whispers like it’s a secret. “But I know that you can be better. A lot better.” Alfred's cheek is warm despite the car’s air conditioning, sparking an electric current under his fingertips. When those eyes lift towards him -- brilliant, beautiful, blue -- gravity pulls him in.

The car behind them honks loudly and both men jump in their seat. Arthur rears back as if scalded and Alfred flattens himself to the backrest, heart pounding. The car honks again, making Arthur curse as he steps on the accelerator.

They spend the next five minutes in tense silence, driving past college buildings with only Alfred's music filling up the car. Arthur keeps his eyes on the road, not daring to look elsewhere until he's sure his face is no longer mimicking a tomato. They’re outside Alfred’s dorm in a couple of minutes. The roar of the engine quiets to a purr.

“You like me back,” Alfred finally says. He isn’t looking at Arthur, smiling instead at the hands he’s got folded on his lap.

“I,” Arthur tries to speak, still terse. “I shouldn’t have tried to--”

“Kiss me?”

Arthur freezes when Alfred suddenly looks over. His throat clogs up but he forces the words out anyway. “It’s… the wrong timing. I… We have to talk about it properly.”

“We can talk about it now.”

“No -- No, you… I can’t distract you with this,” Arthur staunchly refutes.

“You’re not a distraction. I… Being around you always makes me feel better.” Tentatively, Alfred puts his hand over the one Arthur has on the gearstick. “I don’t think I’ve thanked you yet for coming to the game, for dinner, a-and the pep talk, too. Thank you, Arthur.”

The spark is back, charged between the back of his hand and Alfred’s palm. He looks Alfred in the eye and his nerves threaten to overcome him. Seeing this makes Alfred’s smile waver, prompting Arthur to finally take action, take his chance, his hand. His breath hitches when an electric surge pulses between their palms, but Alfred only holds on tighter; Alfred has a strong grip, a bigger hand. His smile grows brighter, getting Arthur to loosen up. “I don't want to start something and then leave you hanging,” he confesses. “I won't see you until after the holidays. And you've got schoolwork to deal with before that. I'm not sure how… I haven’t had a date in years. I fear I might be, er, _out_ dated.”

“I'll have to disagree.” Alfred winks, gaining bravado. “I’d say we've had a rather good date just a while ago.”

“ _That was a date?!_ ”

“Well, a quasi-date,” he amends, thinking how cute Arthur’s flustered face is. “But I get what you're saying. It’s fine if we take things slow.”

Arthur breathes deeply, smoothing his distressed features. This is way beyond what he had planned coming to the game tonight -- what was he even  _ thinking _ trying to kiss Alfred when he was vulnerable like that -- but having reached this point, Arthur finds that the instinct to flee has gone. He quite likes holding Alfred’s hand. 

* * *

Finals week is a blur of manic all-nighters, coffee sludge, and despair. The final project presentation in front of Prof. Abelen leaves many a student to collapse as soon as they're given leave. Even Ivan's perpetual smile turns somber, he stands especially intimidating in a business suit. Alfred's group gets grilled on why they didn't follow Abelen’s pointers to the letter. His teammate had said that the secret to surviving is to stand by your work and acknowledge criticisms. He, Thaksin, and the others do just that. Their throats are parched following their presentation but they're confident that they'll be getting top marks.

David was right; losing the semi-finals match is a blessing in disguise. Alfred collapses into bed Wednesday evening, burned out from three straight days of academic toil.

Peter orders takeout for the both of them, unwilling to budge from his own study table as he prepares for his last exam tomorrow. Lucky bastard.

Alfred still has Philosophy finals on Friday but his Thursday is free. He spends the day baking cookies; de-stressing and making Christmas gifts in one fell swoop. The gingerbread men come out nicely and he decorates them with icing and powdered sugar; a special batch even gets extra thick eyebrows. He seals them in plastic boxes and ties it all up with a red ribbon.

He hands two boxes to Peter on Friday morning; one for him and another for Arthur. Peter cackles at the brows he's added and promises to give them to his brother. He’s still in the middle of packing up but Arthur is due to arrive within the hour. Alfred would have loved to see Arthur (brief emails aren't enough now that they're semi-official) but he needs to meet up with Herakles, get some final pointers on how to pass Philosophy, and this is the only hour that Herakles is free. So he says goodbye to Peter, wishing him a safe trip, and hops on his bike.

Francis’ classroom smells like a bakery when Alfred shows up. It's curious but at the moment his mind is much too preoccupied with mnemonic devices. The line outside the room is of students huddled together bent over reviewers, quizzing each other on the subject. When Francis lets them in, they're arranged alphabetically with Feliks (Łukasiewicz) just two seats behind Alfred. He sort of envies how Feliks looks so fresh -- his golden hair shiny and his eyeliner on fleek -- as if he hasn't been through a week of grueling exams like the rest of them.

It's one and a half hours of mental torture. Alfred answers everything as best as he can but he isn't counting on an A; he’ll be fine as long as he passes.

(If all goes well, he won't have to take any more general subjects next semester. He’ll have more time to devote to his thesis project. And hopefully to Arthur.)

At the end of the test, once all the papers have been collected, Francis brings forward the box that has been sitting on the teacher’s desk.

“This is the last exam for most of you, yes?” He gets a whooping response. “Well, you're not the only one who's finally free for the semester.” More laughter. “And since this is our last meeting--” A chorus of disappointed ‘aww’s rise from the students. “I have a little parting gift for all of you. Aside from the knowledge you've learned, of course.” With a flourish, Francis unveils a stack of chocolate éclairs.

The sweet smell from earlier intensifies, making the whole class salivate. Francis passes the box around, urging each student to get one. Pure heaven registers on those who have taken a bite, the mere taste of it bringing unbridled joy.

Alfred can't imagine a better way to end the semester. He makes a mental note to rank Francis a perfect 5 on that ratemyprofessors site.


	14. Chapter 14

The first snow falls as they’re traveling home. Matthew is asleep, wearing an eye mask with a cartoon polar bear design, and Alfred's got his nose buried in the manga Kiku had lent him.

Kiku has gone back to Japan for holiday break and Alfred is 80% sure Herakles went with him. That photo he emailed bearing the season’s greetings has a suspiciously familiar haircurl at the bottom left corner.

Their grandparents welcome them with big hugs and an even bigger feast. They talk about University and what’s new in town, about how cousin Mary got married at last and what the boys are planning for the future. Alfred almost lets slip his budding relationship with Arthur, somewhere between finding a review center for his board exams and asking for second servings of peas. He's pretty sure Matthew suspects already but since Alfred doesn't bring it up, neither does he. It's nice having this relationship all to themselves but he knows he needs to tell Matthew soon.

Arthur is a little more active on Snapchat now at Alfred's behest. Alfred has never been out of the country before and he had always wanted to visit the UK. So Arthur virtually shows him around, sending photos with witty captions, and it feels like Alfred is right there with him. That is, until Christmas Day itself. Alfred has sent maybe a dozen messages but Arthur never replied. Hell, the chat log doesn't even register that he has read the messages yet. Arthur must be busy, Alfred reasons, finally setting his phone aside.

They gather in the living room to open their presents together. He and Matthew bought their grandparents matching sweaters, a long-running tradition to playfully get back at them for all the twinning outfits in their childhood. It's the reason why many had thought Alfred and Matthew were twins despite numerous attempts to prove otherwise. (The fact that they have different birthdates should have been proof enough but whatever.) The gift was well-received and they tear into their friends’ presents next. Matthew gets a new set of microscope slides, a pen blade, a pack of Caribbean coffee, and an album of his best photos from his photography club. Alfred gets a new set of socks, his favorite body spray, a six-month subscription to an anime streaming service, a tool kit, and --

“What’s that?” Matthew stops outside Alfred’s door.

Alfred bolts upright, gripping the box tightly with both hands. “Y-You done packing up already?”

“I didn’t bother unpacking, we’re only here for a day.” Matthew crosses his arms, an eyebrow raised at the items strewn about. “What are _you_ doing?”

“I… well…” Alfred looks around shiftily.

“Alfred.”

He squeaks, it never bodes well when his brother uses that tone. “Is ma or pop around?”

“They’re at the Clark’s next door.”

“Okay, phew.”

“That’s not anything illegal now, is it?”

“What? No!” Alfred holds the box protectively. “It’s a gift.”

“Then why didn’t you bring it out earlier?” Matthew clicks his tongue, leaning against the doorframe. “Unwrapping time is over.”

“It’s from Arthur.”

Alfred found it on his bed after coming back from his Philosophy exam. He and some other classmates hung out with Francis after class, finishing up their éclairs and trying to wheedle the answers out of their professor. Francis laughed along but didn’t cave, merely promising that he’ll get their grades out before the year changes. Peter and Arthur were already mid-flight but Alfred snapped a photo and sent it to Arthur, anyway, letting him know he has received his gift. It’s wrapped in silver paper with snowflake patterns, a simple greeting card reads ‘ _Happy Christmas, Alfred. From Arthur_ ’ handwritten in red ink. The box itself isn’t heavy but the mere fact that it’s from Arthur carries a lot of weight. Alfred resisted the urge to open it early out of curiosity, his decision fortified when Arthur emailed him back telling him to save it for Christmas.

Now he’s sitting on the floor with the gift still wrapped up and Matthew blinking at him.

“So you guys made up after all.”

“Yeah.” The back of his hand tingles, remembering Arthur’s parting kiss that night after the semi-finals. “We’re alright.”

Matthew allows a moment for Alfred to get lost in thought, amused at the telltale redness that creeps up his brother’s cheeks. “Are you going to open that or are you just going to daydream?”

“S-Shut up! I was just about to do that.” Alfred plucks off the card and puts it in his pocket for safekeeping, then he tears off a strip of the wrapper to get started. Another tear reveals crêpe paper underneath. Alfred rips that off too and once he gets started he doesn’t stop until he unveils a pristine box, the cover printed with the front face of the device within. And then he stares. “No way…”

“I think you two are more than alright,” Matthew says, staring wide-eyed at the unwrapped gift in his brother’s lap. No wonder he didn’t want to open it in front of their grandparents. There’s going to be a lot of questions about who gave it and while Matthew knows the answer to that one, he’s more interested in the answer to _why_.

“I - I didn’t ask for this!” Alfred wails, fingers trembling as they turn the box around, maybe hoping it would reveal itself to be a normal gift somehow; something that isn’t the latest high-end smartphone, stupidly expensive and out-of-stock in all major retailers. A cocktail of panic and excitement stirs inside of him. His eyes widen, reading the text on the back. “ _256GB holy shit._ ”

At this point, Matthew couldn’t hold himself back any longer. He joins his brother on the floor, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Alfred, what the hell?!”

Alfred doesn’t appear to hear him. He puts the box on the floor and takes off the cover (and the pamphlet under it, too) feasting his eyes on the sleek device. “ _Oh my goddddd._ ” He reaches out to touch it but retreats at the last second; he covers it up once again and looks at Matthew. “Oh my goddd,” he squeals, just because it bears repeating. “This is unreal. I-- I don’t even--”

“Why is he giving you this?” Matthew hisses.

“I don’t know,” he cries. “I mean, he knows my phone is cracked--”

“So he just _buys_ you a new one?”

“But I told him it still works fine!”

“This is _insane!_ ”

“I know!”

Matthew tears his eyes from the box to look at his brother. “You’re smiling way too wide, Al.”

“This is supposed to have top specs,” Alfred gushes. “Way beyond anything on the market right now. This is the _future_. How did he even get this? It’s barely over a week since my phone broke. Even those who pre-ordered would have to wait _months_ to get theirs but this -- this is real!”

“Yes, I can see that. Now if you can please stop nerdgasming for a second, I have some very urgent questions here.”

That gets Alfred to shut up. “Gross, Mattie.”

“Believe me that’s not the worst I could imagine,” Matthew quips. “Okay. First off, how did he know your phone was broken?”

“He was there,” Alfred replies. “At the semis game, he… Well, he didn’t say at first that he was going, but I kind of saw his car at the parking lot.”

“So _of course_ you went to him.”

“I wanted to know why he didn’t tell me,” Alfred pouts, deflating at the flat stare he gets. “And _yes_ , okay, I wanted to see him. I had to know if he was there because he had an answer already.”

Matthew almost doesn’t want to know. “An answer to what?”

“Didn’t I tell you?”

More flat staring.

“Haha okay, uh… don’t get mad…” Alfred prefaces, holding both hands up before Matthew. “So I kind of accidentally saw him on campus the week after Annie.”

“What was he doing on campus?”

“I guess he had business at the law college, which is, you know, right beside my building. Anyway. I apologized and we got talking and…” Alfred bites his lip. “I told him I liked him… in a more-than-friends way.”

“You did _not_.”

“I did!”

Matthew’s hands cover his mouth. “What did he say?”

“Said he was going to think about it, which is completely understandable. And then he showed up at semis.” Alfred smiles. “It was a total downer, losing like that, but then Art was there and he said… Well, he said a lot to cheer me up and then we had dinner and he drove me back to the dorms and then…”

“ _What?_ ”

“We held hands,” Alfred proudly declares.

Matthew is _thisclose_ to strangling him for the suspense.

“Also, we’re kind of dating now. Congrats, Mattie, you’re the first to know!”

Matthew stares at him, unbelieving.

Alfred grins wider, like a puppy waiting on a praise after he'd done something commendable.

Matthew holds up a fist with his pointing finger extended, a ‘give me a minute’ gesture to let him process his brother’s revelation. He turns aside and takes his glasses off, mouthing ‘Ohmygod’ and probably other obscenities, too. He rubs the heels of his hands over his eyes then squints at the gift that sits on the floor between them. “ _Jesus, Al_.”

“What?” Alfred frowns. “I thought you'd be happy for me.”

“I _am_ ,” Matthew insists. “It's great that Arthur likes you back, eh, and you're dating -- wow, congrats on that -- but…”

“What?”

“I don't need to tell you to be careful,” Matthew levels him a look.

“...No,” Alfred answers slowly. “You don't.”

“Okay.” Matthew slides his glasses back on. “I'm glad you told me.” He smiles and Alfred returns it.

“Still!” Alfred picks up the box again, opens it to see his reflection on the sleek black glass. “I can't believe he got me this! I -- I don't know what to do!”

“Well, you use it, duh.”

“I… I've never owned _anything_ like this! This is worth more than my life!”

“Doubtful,” Matthew interjects. “So what do you want to do? Return it?” The stricken look on Alfred makes him laugh.

“I -- I, it would be rude to turn down a gift!”

“Then you best get used to your deep pocket boyfriend.”

 

Arthur replies to his messages faster post-Christmas and Alfred is convinced it's got something to do with his new phone. He spent a good five minutes just saying thank you in every variation he could think of, cheeks burning red when Arthur tells him it’s no big deal.

“It _is_ a big deal!” Alfred cried. “This costs way too much!”

“But you needed a new phone,” Arthur counters, sounding perfectly reasonable. “And you’re already using it.”

“I…” Alfred pouts and gets a smirk in return.

It's especially distracting, video-chatting with Arthur in high resolution. Alfred could almost touch him, feel the warmth of his skin, his breath. He sorely wishes Arthur would be back soon.

The dorm is quiet with most of the students gone. They won't be returning until after the new year and Alfred has been tempted once or twice to just room with Mattie temporarily, just so the place doesn’t feel so empty all the time. Then again, there is a pro to having the dorm room all to himself. Alfred alternates between refreshing the University student portal for his grades and marathoning the animes lent to him. Some of the shows are very… suggestive, as Kiku had warned. Even if he is watching them with earbuds plugged in, Alfred is still wary someone might overhear. It’s an open secret that guys his age consume porn but nobody wants to know the specifics.

He also tries out some of the recipes in the manga that Kiku had highly recommended, looking for something that he could make for Arthur. There's a different kind of excitement in cooking for a special someone, every test bite sending a delightful shiver down his spine. Sometimes he'd visit the varsity hockey team’s practices, bringing lunch to Matthew and the guys. It's reassuring to know other people find his cooking delicious, especially when it's his first time making a dish.

It’s the last day of the year and he had just left Matthew at the ice rink. With all the cooking that he has done, the dorm’s pantry and fridge are looking sparse. His dorm mates should be arriving soon and it would not do for them to come back to an empty kitchen. Good thing the supermarket is still open, serving last-minute shoppers for their New Year’s Eve feasts. He’s picking up eggs and flour when his phone rings, Peter’s name flashing on the screen. Alfred checks the time and accounts for the time zone difference before he picks up.

“Peter!” he greets. “Happy new year!”

“Hey, Alfred, thanks.” Peter replies, sounding distracted. “Still about an hour to go, though.”

“Well, I can hear trumpets already.”

“That’s just Alistair’s lot,” Peter explains. “Loud just like my brother, they are.”

“Uhuh.”

“Hold on, let me just head upstairs where it’s more quiet.”

Alfred parks his shopping cart so as not to obstruct the aisle. He hears the sound of a door closing before Peter gets back on the line.

“Speaking of brothers, you don’t happen to have heard anything from Arthur have you?”

“Arthur?”

“Yeah. I haven’t seen him since Christmas. Figured he met up with old friends around town and stayed with them but we’re counting down to the New Year and he still hasn’t come back. He’s not answering his phone, either.”

That makes Alfred pause. He was talking to Arthur just yesterday and he never said anything.  

“I’m actually worried about that prick.”

“Why…Why would he just leave?” Alfred asks. “That doesn’t sound like Arthur.”

“I guess… Well, I’m not sure. I wasn’t in the room when it happened, I was looking after the little rugrats -- er, my nephews.” Peter clears his throat. “Anyway, I thought I heard shouting.”

“Who was shouting?”

“My brothers. Mostly Walter and Arthur, they were having a row.”

Alfred unconsciously grips his phone tighter. “When did this happen?”

“Christmas Day. I don’t know what happened after that, I had to lead the kids away from the swearing adults, you know? But Arthur didn’t show up for supper.”

“And you haven’t seen him since then?”

“No.”

“Maybe he _is_ staying with some friends?” Alfred asks, trying not to let panic seep into his voice. Arthur was always inside a house during video calls. Whose house, Alfred can’t tell, he assumed it was his parents’ home but apparently not.

“If he was, he wouldn’t be ignoring my calls.”

Arthur always picked up when Alfred called.

“Do you know what I think?” Peter tries.

“What?”

“I think he flew out.”

“Flew…”

“Back to New York.”

“Arthur’s here?” Alfred’s eyes go wide, scanning the perimeter as if he’d see him pushing his own grocery cart nearby.

“I don’t know where else he would go.”

“But he… he hasn’t said anything to me.”

“Oh.”

Peter’s disappointment is palpable. Alfred shuffles his shoes.

“I don't know who else to ask.”

Guilt churns in Alfred's stomach. “Hey Peter, listen…”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll try looking for Art here and I'll let you know if I see him.”

“You'd do that? Really?”

“I'm outside right now, I can stop by a few places.”

“Great! And if you find him, can you give him a punch from me?”

* * *

“Hi, I'm here for Mr. Kirkland!” Alfred wears his best smile.

The receptionist raises her brow at him, standing there with a bag full of tupperware. “Mr. Kirkland didn't notify us of any guests.”

 _Aha! So he is here!_ Alfred thinks, triumphant. “That's because this is a surprise!”

“I'm sorry, sir, but it is against policy to let outsiders in.”

“Whaat?” Alfred expected that. “But it's New Year’s Eve and he's holed up there all by himself! I've already cooked dinner for us!”

Susan, the receptionist, purses her lips. Her strict mien softening at his earnest plea. “It would be a shame for the food to go to waste.”

“Yeah.” Alfred does his best impression of a kicked puppy.

“Still, I really can't let you up without Mr. Kirkland’s confirmation,” Susan apologizes. Alfred worries for a second that his tactic won't work, but then she adds, “However… I suppose I can ring him up and let him know you're here.”

“Then it won't be a surprise,” Alfred pouts, his whole frame sagging dramatically while his mind cheers internally. “But if that's what it takes” he puffs out his chest “tell him Alfred F. Jones has come to save the day!”

“Very well.” Susan picks up the receiver and rings up Arthur's unit. “Good evening, Mr. Kirkland!”

Alfred maintains his smile, gaze flitting over the announcements propped up on the reception desk. He figures he should have called in advance but the mere thought of experiencing the turn of the year with Arthur got his mind all riled up. New Year’s Eve is supposed to be romantic and now that he's with Arthur he's going to make the most of it.

“Thank you, sir, I'll send him right up.” Susan puts down the phone and smiles at Alfred. “You're all clear, Mr. Jones. Please sign our visitor’s log and you'll find the elevators at your right.”

 

For all his bravado in facing the receptionist, Alfred's nerves desert him with every floor that the elevator ascends. It's a quarter to eleven already and he'd been afraid he wouldn't make it in time because of the traffic. After Peter’s call at the supermarket he bought extra ingredients and went straight back to the dorms, cooking up a last minute dinner for two.

Alfred wets his dry lips, standing in front of Arthur's door. The last time he came through that door, he ran out on Arthur like a thief after having stolen a kiss. He blushes just remembering it. It feels surreal being back here, knowing Arthur is just inside, waiting for him to show up.

He's still reeling from the fact that Arthur _is_ here. In the same city. All this time. What does it _mean_ that he never thought to tell Alfred? Never tried to see him in person?

It won't be much use asking those questions to the door, though. So Alfred stands his ground and rings the doorbell. The bag in his arms feel heavier with every second that passes, until

“Alfred?” Half a face peers at him through the half-open door. Sandy hair, bushy brows, and eyes vibrant like a spring meadow.

He sucks in a breath. “Hi.” Already, his eyes are feasting on what little details the gap between the door shows. _Arthur_ , his mind exclaims. _Arthur’s here!_ The excitement rattles his nerves even more. He stands there tongue-tied and vibrating with excitement.

“Hi,” Arthur says back, equally breathless, face matching the red wooly jumper he’s got on. He pulls the door open a little wider, staring at the bulky package in Alfred’s hands. “You, er, brought…”

“Food!” Alfred finishes for him, a little louder than necessary. “It’s pretty late but I… thought you might be hungry?” He shifts on his soles, swallowing. “Can I come in?”

“O-Oh! Of course.” Arthur stands aside as Alfred crosses the threshold, making a beeline for the kitchen. He locks the door and takes a steadying breath, a whiff of Alfred’s cologne lingers in the air.

Alfred is taking out tupperware containers, babbling when he hears Arthur’s footsteps approaching. “You probably had dinner already but I've got Hamburg steak. With potato salad. And I _kind of_ assumed you got drinks but water should be fine. Water’s good for the body and--”

“Alfred.”

He yelps, jumping in his skin when the call comes from right beside him. Arthur's expression is unreadable. “Yeah?”

Arthur has to lift his chin up a little to look Alfred in the eye, searching. “How did you know I was here?” he asks slowly.

Alfred folds his lips into his mouth, buying time. His gaze flits over to the food atop the counter, then back on Arthur's face. “I… Are you sure you don't want to eat first?”

The furrowed brows relax, Arthur's tone wavering with concern. “I didn't know you were coming so I already ate. Have _you_ had dinner?”

“A bite.”

Arthur looks away, chastised. “I’ll get the plates out.”

“Arthur, wait!”

A hand latches on his arm, making Arthur look back.

“I'm really sorry to impose,” Alfred says, chin tucked to his chest.

“It's alright, lad.” Arthur puts his hand atop Alfred's, reassuring.

His heart skips a beat at the contact, tripping his tongue. “Peter called,” Alfred blurts out. “H-He said nobody has seen you around since Christmas. He was worried and I… I worried, too.” Standing in the middle of Arthur's kitchen thaws his frozen face, the heat that has pooled around his cheeks stands out in particular.

“Peter called you?” Arthur frowns, hand falling to his side.

“He said you weren't picking up his calls,” Alfred accuses, grip tightening on Arthur’s arm. The sweater is a little loose on him. “He said… He said he heard you fighting with someone in the house. And that you left without telling anyone.”

A hard sheen makes those green eyes gleam. Arthur doesn’t deny it, he doesn’t try to shake off Alfred’s hold, instead he boldly looks straight at him. He replies in a tightly controlled voice, “I needed space to clear my head, there was no need to worry.”

“Of course, we’re worried!” Alfred interjects, looking surprised at his own outburst. “You _flew_ _out_ of the _country_ just to get away from whatever it is!”

His whole body tenses, affronted at the tone Alfred used with him. Arthur does not appreciated being addressed like a child. It’s a farce to be _disciplined_ by someone who doesn’t even have _any idea_ of what he’s talking about.

Arthur’s silence is deadly and Alfred quickly realizes his mistake. He backs down, gulps, his hand sliding down to encircle Arthur’s wrist loosely. “We’ve been texting and calling and all along I thought you were doing fine.”

It takes effort to unclench his jaw. How could Arthur fault such sincerity? “I _was_ fine.” Arthur turns his hand so he could hold Alfred’s. This… infuriating, tactless, _chivalrous_ young man. He braved the cold to get here and he's not even wearing gloves. Arthur feels a lecture itching its way out his throat but he swallows it down, replying instead with a softness like freshly fallen snow. “I always felt better talking to you. What Peter heard was a family matter, I… it didn't feel right putting that burden on your shoulders.”

“So you just kept it all to yourself?”

“It's easier to manage--”

“No, it's not,” Alfred cuts in, low and intense. “You've got me now. I’ve been whining to you about my stupid grades all this time. I… I want to hear about your problems, too. I want to be there for you.” His declaration rings loud in the silent kitchen.

Arthur winces when Alfred clutches his hand tightly. He would complain but then he notices the watery eyes, threatening to spill. Alfred had never shied away from showing emotion and it has never affected him as much as it does now. He forgives the brash intrusion, unable to fault the younger man for interrupting his peace and quiet knowing just how worried Alfred had been about him. Arthur can’t quite wrap his mind around it but by god he is _not_ going to just stand there and have Alfred cry.

“I’m sorry, love.” Arthur brings up his other hand, easing the white knuckles that grip him from their stiff position. “It's just that… I've always dealt with it alone. I didn't mind it. I didn't even consider… I'm sorry.”

“Do you… want to talk about it now?” Alfred asks, mollified by the gentle touch.

Arthur smiles sadly. “It's an old argument between me and my brothers. I don't care much about it and you shouldn't, either.”

Alfred chews on his bottom lip. Arthur wouldn't flee thousands of miles away from his family if it was all alright, is what he thinks. But if Arthur isn't comfortable talking about it, Alfred doesn't want to force him to say anything. The last thing he wants is to add to Arthur's problems.

“Alfred?”

“Next time,” he says. “Next time, you should tell me if anything troubles you.”

The room is silent for a long, anticipatory moment.

“I will.”

Alfred nods, his smile returning. When Arthur lets go of his hand, he uses both of them to pull Arthur into a hug. Arthur squawks at being manhandled but he quiets when Alfred whispers, “I missed you” into his ear.

With his face surpassing the deep red of his sweater, Arthur sinks into Alfred's embrace, breathing him in. “... You smell like hamburgers.”

Laughing, Alfred squeezes him once before letting go. “Because that's what's for dinner. I know you said you already ate but… Will you join me?”

 

“I was just getting ready for bed, when the receptionist called.”

“What? Really?” Alfred hastily swallows after the Brit scowls at the half-chewed bits of meat that flew out of his mouth. He takes a gulp of beer to wash down the food; Arthur let him take a can from the fridge. “You know it's New Year’s Eve, right?”

“I am aware.” Arthur primly sips his tea. He declined the offer of food, instead brewing himself a pot of black tea to stave off drowsiness.

“Then you know you're supposed to stay up ‘til midnight celebrating, right? Say goodbye to the old year and all that.”

“I'm not really big on celebrations.” The lack of any holiday decor is enough proof of that.

Alfred looks down at his now empty plate, unable to help the frown that pulls on his lips. “But I want to greet the new year with you.”

Arthur slowly puts his cup down, nearly missing its saucer because he can’t look away. Before he can think twice about it, Arthur reaches over to wipe off a spot of gravy from Alfred's chin.

It's the fleeting touches that speak most, letting them know that any ill thoughts from their dispute earlier have been forgotten. What they have here right now is infinitely better.

Alfred licks the drop of gravy from Arthur's thumb. He saw this happen in one of Kiku’s animes. Usually as a prelude to some intense make-out but Alfred will be satisfied with a kiss. It’s one sure way to know they’ve made up. They haven’t had a proper one ever since they became official and now is the best opportunity for it. Arthur is turning pink before him, bringing a slight tremor in his finger sliding against slick lips.

The chair screeches, skidding against the floor. Arthur abruptly pulls his hand back, standing ramrod straight. “I’ll just be a moment.”

Alfred blinks, disoriented. “Wha--Where are you going?”

“I’m… sending Peter a text. You said he was worried.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Right. You finish your food and just leave the dishes in the sink.” Arthur nods, mostly to himself. “I think I left my phone…” He walks off without finishing, leaving Alfred to blink after him.

Alfred cranes his neck, following the Brit’s retreat into his home office. Huh. Maybe he’s being too forward (again) but can you really blame him? Arthur was _touching_ his lips… Well. His mouth, really. The perimeter of it. He promised Arthur that they could go as slow as he liked but that one was on Arthur. Alfred was just reacting to him in a perfectly natural way… which doesn't change the fact that Arthur ran away (again). Alfred lets out a long-suffering sigh. He can totally do slow! Slower even! Hell, that can be his New Year’s resolution!

Speaking of… Alfred checks the time, eyes bugging out when he sees it’s already 11:55. _Shit._

 _How_ can it be this late already?!

He speeds over to the living room where all the curtains are drawn shut. Arthur’s unit is near the topmost floor of the condominium, the perfect vantage point for the annual fireworks show.

Alfred _loves_ watching New Year fireworks in the city -- they're big and bright and loud, enough to cover the already deafening cheers. He had spent the last three years at W University’s open field, arm in arm with Matthew and other fellow jocks as they shout along with the countdown. He can't ever recall meeting the New Year with such permeating quiet. Or with his nerves so high-strung.

The curtains are heavy but the sight beyond them is breathtaking. All the lights in the city are on, the streets a river of people. Alfred can almost hear them, _feel_ their pulsing energy. He doesn't hear the office door open but he does feel Arthur stand beside him, both of them now looking out at the city.

“There's a party at the clubhouse by the pool,” Arthur tells him. “They, er, have barbecues and an open bar.”

“I didn't come here for a party,” is Alfred’s response, turning sideways and making sure he’s looking right at Arthur when he adds. “I came here for you.”

“I know you did,” Arthur whispers. “I just can’t believe it.”

“Tell me what I have to do.” Alfred faces him fully.

“You’ve already done so much.” Arthur steps closer.

“If you think I’m moving too fast--”

“You’re fine, Alfred,” Arthur assures him. “More than fine. I guess I’m a bit overwhelmed, yes, but you’re… more romantic that I could have expected.”

Alfred blushes, breath hitching when Arthur touches his cheek.

“I’m not used to being treated so… specially.”

“You are special. To me.”

“And you’ve shown it, too.” Arthur rubs his thumb over prominent cheeks, slightly displacing the framed glasses. “I’d like to try, if you don’t mind.”

Alfred’s mouth goes dry but he still manages to ask, “Try what…?”

“Reciprocating.”

His mind bluescreens, cutting off the shrill _Oh My God--!!!_ that zips through every nerve.

Arthur stares at him steadily, almost imploringly.

In the next second, Alfred’s heart jumpstarts, trying to break out of his rib cage with the force of every beat. Alfred can’t remember if he said anything more, or if he just closed his eyes and let Arthur do as he pleases. In the dark, he feels Arthur’s breath on his lips, a second palm cradles his face. He’s pulled downwards oh so slightly and where he expects a soft touch ( _finally, finally!_ his heart cries) Arthur kisses him full on the lips.

Blue eyes snap open, wide behind his glasses, to find Arthur watching him with a half-lidded gaze. His breath hitches, mouth parting to let out the smallest hiccups and he feels Arthur smirk, pulling back and kissing just his bottom lip. He whines and Arthur kisses him again, softer. Alfred clings to Arthur then, hands on his waist, fisting into woolen thread. He shivers, body thrumming with excitement; he feels like a firework that’s about to go off.

“Arthur… it’s not midnight yet,” Alfred whispers.

“Sorry?”

“You’re supposed to kiss at twelve on New Year’s Eve.”

They both check the wall clock.

“It’s 11:59.”

Arthur sees Alfred biting his lips. He’s adorable. Tempting. Their noses bump as he angles his face once more. “Very well. I’ll just have to keep kissing you until midnight comes.”

This time Alfred is ready, giddy in fact. He holds Arthur close, wrapping his arms around the slim waist, dipping him back just a little. Arthur snorts at his antics but goes along with it, still cupping Alfred’s face.

They meet in the middle, lips sealing together in a perfect fit. A warm feeling spreads all over Alfred’s body and he assumes it’s the same for Arthur. They breathe in sync, eyes closed, their mouths never parting too long. He can’t imagine why he ever thought Arthur would be a demure kisser. He kisses Alfred tenderly, yes, but he’s also assertive, matching Alfred’s moaned  demands. Alfred could have stood there, kissing Arthur forever, but a flash of bright light distracts them. Arthur pulls away just in time for a second golden flare to highlight Alfred’s dazed face. More explosions go off from different points of the city, painting the sky with glittering hues.

“Happy new year, Art.” Alfred touches their foreheads together.

“We didn’t have to stop kissing for that,” Arthur says drily, but his eyes are shining.

“What? You’re the one who broke away.” Alfred pouts but the childish act clears when Arthur grips his chin.

“My mistake,” he smiles.

Alfred is more than willing to let him make up for that and he tells Arthur as much. What he gets is an electrifying look and three seconds later, he’s being pushed onto the living room couch. He’s half-sitting and half-lying, torn between pulling Arthur down with him and leaving the man to his devices. He _likes_ this Arthur that kisses him a lot, kisses him with no hesitation.

Arthur perches on the seat beside Alfred, the hand that’s not laced with the younger man reaches over to tuck aside his bangs. “Alright there, love?”

“Feels like déjà vu.” Alfred looks down at the couch, then back to Arthur. “I’m still sorry for what I did. When I kissed you here back then.”

“Even if it lead to this?” Arthur caresses his face.

“Okay, maybe just a little sorry.”

Arthur molds his smile against Alfred, laughing when a strong arm pulls him closer by the waist. They fall back on the couch with Alfred underneath him, lips locked, hands slipping free to hold each other more closely. Arthur pulls back and picks Alfred’s glasses off his face. “I’m afraid we’ll break these.”

“I’m not afraid,” he replies, meaning something else entirely. Alfred takes the glasses from him, anyway, stretching his arm to deposit them atop the coffee table. He can see Arthur clearly at this distance -- the flecks of gold in his eyes, the light freckles across his nose. Arthur’s hand is on his chest now, balancing his weight, and Alfred wonders if he could feel the way his heart beats for him. “I feel kind of stupid, really, I thought that you were already putting the moves on me before…”

Thick brows arch, amused. “Did you now?”

“ _Yes_ .” Alfred makes a face. “I never would have done that if I didn’t think there was _something_.”

“It’s a shame I didn’t realize it sooner, then, I apologize.” Arthur pecks at the corner of his lips, not moving away fast enough that Alfred is able to turn and capture his mouth. He tastes like burgers and gravy but it only makes Arthur want to kiss him more, unable to get enough of his new favorite flavor. “We could’ve had this much, much sooner,” he mumbles with feeling.

“Mm. I’m not complaining.” Alfred has threaded his fingers through sandy blond hair, using his grip to hold Arthur still for a moment, nuzzling and sighing contentedly.

Hours could have gone by and they wouldn't have known it, wrapped up in their own little world of adoring looks and lingering kisses. They've got throw pillows propped against the armrest, legs tangled together, words coming softly, fleetingly, so as not to disturb the near-sacred silence. Arthur is laughing quietly against Alfred's jaw, the sound of it filling the younger man’s heart close to bursting. It’s still beating faster than usual, he doubts if it will ever slow down to a normal pace ever again. Not that he minds. He’d gladly live with a jackhammering heart if it means having Arthur stay close to him.

“And then, I said--” Alfred cuts off when music plays from his jeans’ pocket.

 _Cellophane. Mister Cellophane_  
_Should have been my name  
_ _Mister Cellophane_

Alfred cranes his head, looking over his shoulder to find himself pressed firmly against the backrest. His arms are looped around Arthur to prevent him from falling over the side; Arthur's hand, resting on hip, is nearer to his back pocket. He faces Arthur, embarrassed before he even asks, “Um. Sorry, Art, but can you get my phone?”

“Hm? Alright, where is it?”

“Back pocket.”

Arthur finds it cute, the way Alfred stutters when he says it. He's not the type to cop a feel, you know. So he plants a quick kiss and pulls out the ringing device, holding it towards Alfred with a “Here you go.”

“And can you put it on speaker? I don't wanna move my hands.”

Said hands pull Arthur closer, comfortably locked together at the small of his back. He scoffs but complies anyway, it only takes two quick swipes.

“Thanks.” Alfred kisses Arthur’s cheek before answering the phone with a grin. “Hey Mattie!”

“Hey! I hope I'm not interrupting.”

“What are you talking about? Haha. There's nothing going on.”

Arthur raises a brow at this, making Alfred quick to amend.

“Well. I mean…”

But Matthew talks over him, sounding skeptical. “You said you went to find Arthur.”

“That's right. And I found him.”

“So my greeting stands,” Matthew emphasizes. “ _I hope I'm not interrupting anything._ ”

Alfred chokes and Arthur snorts. The latter sound must have reached the other end as well, for Matthew’s tone changes completely when he next speaks.

“Is that -- Oh my god, Al, you put me on speaker?”

“Yeah, sorry, my hands are kind of occupied.”

“Dude, TMI!”

“No!! Not like that!”

Arthur decides to speak up despite his laughter. “At ease, Matthew. Your brother’s virtue remains intact.”

“My _what_?” Alfred cries, at the same time that Matthew cackles on the phone. “ _Arthur!_ ”

“Anyway,” Matthew clears his throat. “I just called to greet you guys Happy New Year.”

“And we wish the same to you,” Arthur says.

“So there's a _we_ now, is there?”

“You bet there is!” Alfred all but shouts. “And we kissed at midnight, too!”

“Oi!” Arthur’s cheeks flare up, mouth pulled to a frown. “Your brother doesn't need to know that!”

“But we tell each other everything!” Alfred pouts.

“We do,” Matthew confirms.

 

_ “Excusez-moi, Matthieu. Aimeriez-vous la encore du vin?”  _

_ “Oui, merci.”  _

 

All color drains from Arthur’s face. Alfred feels him tense up, too, but before he could ask what's wrong, Arthur pulls the phone closer to himself, demanding “Who was that?”

“I’m at a bar with a friend,” Matthew replies, none-the-wiser.

“What’s his name?” Arthur's eyes narrow.

This time his clipped tone is unmistakable. Matthew replies more carefully. “Why do you want to know?”

“I heard _French_.”

Wary, Alfred tries to intervene. “Arthur, Mattie speaks French.”

“No, no I heard someone else’s voice.”

“It’s just Francis,” Matthew says.

For a split-second Arthur goes completely still. Alfred nudges him gently, mouthing “ _You okay?_ ” Arthur's reaction worries him greatly. The look on his face reads empty, like he doesn't even see Alfred in front of him.

Then he opens his mouth, words forged with steel unlike anything Alfred has heard before. “Give him the phone.”

“Um.”

“Matthew, hand the phone to Francis _right now_.” Clarity has returned to Arthur's eyes, and with it a fire that's set to burn down a whole forest.

“Please do it, Mattie,” Alfred adds, worried and uncertain in the face of this Arthur that's shaking with anger in his arms.

There's a bit of shuffling then an airy yet masculine voice comes through. _ “Pour moi? Ah. Bonjour?” _

Alfred recognizes it somehow, feels like he _knows_ that voice. Arthur's nostrils flare up, inhaling heavily and releasing all that pent up tension with a shout.

“You stay away from Matthew you bloody frog!”

Alfred stares. Arthur won't look him in the eyes, shoulders heaving with every breath.

Silence rings from the other end, then “ _Mon Dieu_ … could it be?” Francis switches to English but his accent lingers. He sounds just like Alfred's Philosophy professor. “ _Arthur?_ ”

* * *

**The End**

* * *

 .

. .

. . .

. . . .

. . . . .

. . . .

. . .

. .

.

“Tell me what's wrong.”

“It's… I would have told you eventually. _Sooner_ than later just… this isn't how I wanted to tell you.”

“Well, whatever it is can't be that bad.”

“Oh, bloody hell… I’m not prepared at all.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Art, take your time.”

“This is difficult for me. You must understand, I haven’t… never imagined that I would ever… hear from him again.”

“Hey, it’s fine. Just… why were you so mad? That couldn’t have been good for your blood pressure.”

“Wha -- are you joking with me?”

“Just trying to make you smile… You don’t need to tell me everything right now.”

“…Alright. Thank you, Alfred, you know I… haven't had a lot of relationships. Before. But, ah… That is to say…”

“Francis was your ex?”

“... Yes.”

“Huh. Cool -- wait, no, _not_ cool but I mean… at least, it's not anything major, like--”

“H-He's my ex-spouse!”

“... He’s _what…?_ ”

“Alfred -- I'm divorced.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who called that ending, raise your hand and I'll give u a cookie C:  
> It's been fun writing this, thanks for joining me!
> 
> One last fun fact: [Dilmah](https://www.dilmah.com/pairing-tea) says hamburgers go with strong black tea


End file.
